"Let them do so. He will make his way in spite of them. He is a gentleman bred and born." "A gentleman, forsooth!" "Yes--a gentleman who has bound himself to marry a ballet girl--for that's what I am. Neither more nor less than a ballet girl!" "Had it not been for my misfortunes----" "We need not speak of them, papa. But was it a wise thing on your part to expose me to all the temptations of a theatre?" "I had every confidence in the strength of your principles." "Had you known one tithe of the temptations to which I was exposed, you might well have trembled for me. Why, the very last night I was at the Royal Westminster there was a note left for me at the stage door and a splendid bouquet, and inside the bouquet was this." As Miriam spoke, she extracted from her watch-pocket a ring set with five or six costly brilliants, and handed it to her father. "You are not going to wear this!" he said, looking up at her with sudden suspicion. "You ought to know me better, papa, than to ask such a question." "Do you know from whom it came?" "It would not be difficult to find out, I dare say." "Then why have you not sent the ring back?" "Because I mean the sender of it to pay for his folly. You remember my telling you how little Rose Montgomery broke her leg at the theatre the other week, through falling down a trap. She is little more than a child, and has not another friend than myself in all London. I am going to ask James to sell the ring for me. I shall give Rose the money. It will keep her when she comes out of the hospital till she is strong enough to begin dancing again." "James! James! How I hate to hear the name!" said Byrne, as he got up and left the room. "It is the name of the man I love--of the man whose wife I am going to be," replied Miriam. Then she sat down and began to cry. CHAPTER II. FLOATING WITH THE STREAM. Lady Dudgeon's morning-room in Harley Street. At her davenport near the window, pen in hand, sat her ladyship, where, indeed, she was to be found at eleven a.m. six mornings out of seven. On the ridge of her high nose was perched the double gold-rimmed eye-glass which she had taken to wearing of late in the privacy of the family circle, but the existence of which, outside that circle, was kept a profound secret. On a low chair close by, in a pretty morning-dress, sat Eleanor Lloyd. London life and London hours were beginning to tell upon her already. There was a look of weariness in her eyes, and her cheeks had lost a little of that fresh, delicate bloom which she had brought with her from the country, but which cannot exist long in the atmosphere of Belgravian ballrooms.