“It may be so, very likely it is, in fact,” she replies as she scans his face, and, in spite of Carl, is fain forced to confess to herself that to women who love physical attraction, this man with his fair languid beauty, his earnest ultramarine eyes, must be irresistible. “But I could never be one of them.” “Do give me leave to try,” he whispers in a voice that is wonderfully seductive. “You shall be as free as a bird, only I--I shall be bound--and willingly.” “No! No!” she says, almost sharply. It is not that she fears temptation, but the very idea of love from anyone but Carl is odious to her. “I could never care for you. I could never marry you.” “Reconsider that, Zai!” “If I reconsidered it for ever I should never change my mind!” Lord Delaval shrugs his shoulders slightly, and fixes his eyes steadily, almost rudely, on her. “I am not, as a rule, a betting man, or I should be willing to lay very heavy odds that you will live to regret those words, or to unsay them.” Why is it that at this moment an ice cold hand seems to grasp the girl’s heart and hold it in a vice? She is really as free as air, no human being has power of compulsion over her, least of all this man who dares to threaten her. Yet she shivers a little in the soft, warm, June air, and without answering a word walks hastily into the house. Lady Beranger and Gabrielle stand near the entrance of the ball-room, and beyond them Zai sees Carlton Conway, and on his arm, just emerging from the supper-room, Crystal Meredyth. A faintness creeps over her and her hands grow chill as death, while her face blanches to the hue of a white rose. It seems too hard, too hard! that he should flaunt his flagrant flirtation with this girl before her very eyes; but she is equal to the occasion. With her dainty head erect, her slender figure pulled up to its utmost height, she passes her mother and sister, Lord Delaval still at her side, and, as she nears her lover and her rival, she looks up, smiles in Lord Delaval’s face, and lays her hand on his arm. “First some supper, and then ten waltzes at least,” she says in a bright ringing tone, “and _après cela, le deluge_.” A little haughty bend to Carl--Carl, whom she is loving at this moment with every fibre of her being, and she is gone, while Lord Delaval shrugs his shoulders once more and presses the little, white-gloved hand to his side, and says to himself with a feeling of complacency: “_Femme souvent varie--folle qui s’y fie!_” [Illustration] CHAPTER VI. MISS FLORA FITZALLAN. “Love in a hut--with water and a crust Is, Love forgive us! Cinders--ashes--dust!” A pretty little house, _parfaitement bien monté_, in Halfmoon Street. Plenty of marqueterie and rococo about, heaps of china monstrosities, heaps of nude statuary and glowing pictures, and shoals of devices in the shape of soft armchairs and cushions and sofas, to contribute to the well-being of man.