One sickening glance round the magnificent ballroom, full of delicately-beautiful toilettes, bright with flowers, lights, and laughter, gay with the music of a well-known band--told her Vansittart was not there. However, she maintained her composure--he might yet come--and with her usual chilly indifference allowed her few privileged friends to inscribe their initials on her tiny tablet. New partners she declined, with the plea of fatigue. But it was weary work! She was just telling herself, fiercely, that she could bear no more; she was seeking Lady Thorne to implore a retreat, when she came upon Vansittart talking pleasantly to her aunt in a cool corner. "I was waiting for you," he said, looking into her eyes and reading in them that which fired his blood. "You will give me this dance?" "Yes," she said, and she accompanied him, meek, silent, subdued, and allowing him to encircle her slight waist with a firm, proprietory clasp, glided round and round to the dreamy melody of the "Bienaimée" valse. Once before, when she had first longed for his love, and felt the throes of this overwhelming life-passion, they had danced together to that swaying, suggestive melody. He remembered it--remembered how to feel her slight form almost in his embrace had urged him into a reckless avowal of a love which was promptly rejected. He set his teeth. He was at a white heat again--and she--? By some subtle sense he believed his moment had come. "I must speak to you," he hoarsely said, as they halted, Joan white and breathless with emotion. "May I?" She looked up into his eyes, and at the intensity of the appealing, passionate abandonment to his will in that gaze, he thrilled with triumph. "We will go into the Duchess’s boudoir, I know we may," he said, feeling a little giddy as he escorted her along a corridor and through the drawing-rooms. The boudoir was empty--one or two couples only were seated in the adjacent anteroom, he saw at a glance they were well occupied with their own flirtations. He closed the door, drew the embroidered satin portiére across--they were alone in the dimly-lighted room. He turned to her as she stood gazing at him, pale, fascinated. He took her hands. "Joan!" he said--then, as he felt her passion, he simply drew her into his arms, and stooping, kissed her lips--a long, passionate kiss. To feel his lips on hers was ecstacy to her--for a few moments she forgot all--it was like heaven before its time. Then she feebly pushed him away, and gave a low moan. "Oh! what have I done?" she wailed, and she glanced about like a hunted creature. "How could you?" "You love me! What is to keep us asunder?" he hoarsely cried. As she sank shuddering, gasping, into a chair, he fell at her knees, and embraced them. "I am the happiest man on earth! For your uncle will approve, and you--you, Joan! All that was wanted was your love to make you my dear--wife!"