The dance—it was the first of the night—had come to an end, and while a few couples had seated themselves, the greater number were slowly promenading around the ballroom. As they passed by in gay talk Wilfrid scanned the shape of each fair masker, and tried to catch the sound of her voice in the hope that he might hear the Duchess speaking; nor did he neglect to hold his arm in such a position that his lady’s favour might be clearly seen. Now, during this promenading, Wilfrid’s attention was struck by a tall gentleman—he was more than six feet high—clad in the glittering dress of a Crusader. This individual, while going by, fixed a keen glance both upon Pauline and Wilfrid. Through the holes of his mask a pair of steely blue eyes seemed to flash anger; the next moment their owner had passed by. “Prince Ouvaroff, or my name isn’t Courtenay,” murmured Wilfrid. “Which is Ouvaroff?” asked Pauline. “He in the dress of a Crusader,” replied Wilfrid, indicating the receding figure. “Yes, that is Ouvaroff.” She spoke with a sort of hesitancy that gave Wilfrid the impression that while she herself did not really believe that it _was_ Ouvaroff, she was desirous that Wilfrid should! An odd impression, certainly, but there it was. The music, suspended after the first dance, now started again. Eager as Wilfrid was to begin his search for the Duchess, he nevertheless realised that it would be unmannerly to escort Pauline to the ball without offering to tread one measure at least with her. “The second dance is beginning. It is a waltz. Shall we——” Pauline’s manner was odd, not to say perplexing. She hesitated; nay, Wilfrid fancied he could detect a look of fear in her eyes; then she gave a grateful smile, and the next moment to the sound of sweetest melody she was floating around in the dreamy mazes of a waltz, the very dance in which Wilfrid had no superior. The waltz is the most voluptuous of dances, and Pauline drank fully of its charms. She had no need to look where she was going. Wilfrid’s touch, strong yet tender, steered her gracefully and lightly through the moving throng. The ballroom, the lights, the dancers—all seemed to vanish. She and Wilfrid were the sole beings in a Paradise of their own. With her lips parted into an unconscious smile she yielded herself to the delicious spell of intoxication; her eyes half-closed, she rested on his arm, swaying to and fro on a billowy sea of pleasure. Could her wish at that moment have had its fulfilment this dance would have lasted for ever. Wilfrid, to his shame be it said, felt little of this fascination; his pulse beat, perhaps, two or three above the normal; no more. His attention to Pauline was more apparent than real; his mind was dwelling on the Duchess, and whenever any lady, golden-haired and blue-eyed, floated past, she was sure to receive from him a scrutinising glance. Then came a sudden surprise. “_Baroness!_”