When the evening was growing old, and the flowers began to droop and the music to flag; when the girls began to look the worse for too much dancing, and the men, in many cases, the worse for too much wine, Miss Trevennon, finding herself a little weary, yielded to the suggestion of her companion for the moment, who happened to be Lord Waring, and allowed herself to be led to a cool, dim recess in the conservatory, where she sank into a seat to wait, while Lord Waring went for a glass of water for her. It was very still and quiet here. Almost every one was occupied either in the supper-room or in dancing, and Margaret supposed herself to be quite alone, until the sound of low-toned voices arrested her attention. Turning, she caught sight, between the branches of some densely leaved palms, of the figures of a man and woman. The latter’s back was turned, but Margaret recognized the pink costume and smooth, bare shoulders. The head was raised to meet the ardent gaze of the man who bent above her. This man’s face was turned full toward Margaret, and she, too, could see that gaze--a tender, fervid look that, but a few hours since, had been bent upon herself. Instinctively she closed her eyes, afraid to look longer, and feeling a quick pang of horror as she remembered that so recently this man had kissed her hand. Thank Heaven he had never, for one instant, touched her heart--that she cared not an atom for him! But suppose it had been different! Suppose the tenderness he had so successfully counterfeited, the significant words she had so implicitly believed, had awakened an answering tenderness in her heart! As these hurried thoughts rushed through her mind, she rose to her feet, confused and agitated. Again her troubled gaze rested for one instant upon another vision of those two figures through the vista of flowers and leaves, but it was for an instant only, for she felt a swift instinct of flight, and forgetting Lord Waring and the fact that he would expect to find her where he had left her, she fled from the conservatory and entered the room beyond. Bewildered, agitated, weak, uncertain, she looked about her with a troubled gaze, and met the steadfast eyes of Louis Gaston. With a look of joyful relief she hastened toward him and placed her hand, with a confiding motion, within the arm he extended. His calm and self-collected aspect, the firm support of his strong arm, the repose of his quiet manner, the freshness of his evening toilet, recently made, which contrasted so pleasantly with the somewhat dishevelled and flushed appearance of many of the men at this late hour, all these were so restful and reassuring that Margaret drew a long breath of contentment to find herself so safe. “Where did you come from?” she said. “You were the very last person I expected to see.”