“I must congratulate you on your engagement, Mr. Lionel,” she said, with a slight effort. “I was somewhat surprised when Lady Montella informed me of the news. I did not think that you—of all people—would marry without the pale; but, of course, there is no Earl’s daughter to be found among the Jews.” The latter part of her speech was spoken jestingly, but the sting was no less keen. The young man’s face coloured beneath his mask. Had anyone else proffered such a remark, he could only have received it as an insult. Restraining the hasty rejoinder which rose to his lips, he kept silence, and Zillah, seeing that her dart had struck home, immediately changed the subject. But the pleasure of the evening was spoilt for Montella, and a troubled expression settled on his brow. It occurred to him that the singer had perhaps unconsciously foretold the decision of public opinion—namely, that he was marrying the Lady Patricia Byrne on account of her noble birth, and in order to strengthen his position as a member of the aristocracy. He knew that public opinion was never inclined to ascribe a man’s action to lofty and disinterested motives, but in this case it would vex him greatly if he were misunderstood. His mind was busy all the time he danced, and Zillah Lorm might have been miles away, so little was he influenced by her charms. The room was crowded, for it was close on midnight, when the culminating point of the evening would be reached. It needed some amount of care on the part of the men to lead their partners gracefully through the maze of dancers, and two or three times Zillah narrowly escaped colliding with the others. Montella—probably because his thoughts were elsewhere—was unusually awkward, and just as he was guiding his partner round a difficult corner, he accidentally trod upon a lady’s dress. There followed the sound of tearing lace and splitting seams, and an exclamation of anger escaped from the lady at having been stopped short in that unpleasant way. Her partner—the Oliver Cromwell whom Patricia had noticed earlier in the evening—insisted that the offender had been guilty of gross carelessness, and waiving the young man’s apologies, proceeded to harangue him on the subject. There was something so aggressive in his manner that Montella felt his temper rise, and gave vent to a heated rejoinder, quite foreign to his general equability. The “Cromwell” took it up, determined to give his pugnacious propensities full sway, whilst the ladies stood by and listened uncomfortably to the wordy war. “You have ruined the lady’s dress, and spoilt her evening,” he said, glaring at the culprit as if he were a schoolboy. “And all you do in return is to stand there and make lame apologies. I should think the least you could do would be to make amends like a gentleman.” “Certainly. What can I do? If this lady will kindly tell me, I shall be happy to do it. I have already expressed my deep regret that the accident should have occurred.”