He catches hold of her hands, and holds them as in a vice, and though she draws them away, she does not rebuke him for calling her “Zai.” Perhaps she scarcely heeds that he does so. She is sore at heart about Carl. She would give a good deal to show him that if he does not appreciate her there are others who do; and what could be a greater triumph for her than to leave the Duchess of Caryllon’s ball the future Countess of Delaval. She would be more than the bright, gay, and rather spoilt girl Belgravia has made her if she did not hesitate before she rejects this triumph over Carl and “that Miss Meredyth,” who, of course, knows that she has usurped Carl’s heart. Zai has considered herself bound in honour to Carl; but he himself, by his conduct in the latter days, has given her back the freedom she did not want. There is really nothing to prevent her accepting Lord Delaval except--and that is a great deal--her own wilful rebellious soul, that clings to Carl with a tenacity stronger than herself. “You will not press me, Lord Delaval! for an answer, will you?” she asks, quietly. “I should like to think a little, to reflect. One can’t make up one’s mind in a minute you know,” she winds up more hastily. “On condition that you won’t keep me too long in suspense. Will you let me know my fate at the State Ball on Friday? That is two whole days.” “Yes,” she answers, gravely; then she jumps up from her chair. “I have promised Percy Rayne, Number 24,” she says, examining her ivory tablets, “and I hear it beginning. 24. _Le Premier Baiser._ It is such a delicious air that I never miss it.” He rises and offers his arm in silence. “It was Rayne who suggested your fancy dress, I suppose? I know he is great at such things,” he says, a trifle sullenly. “Yes; do you like it?” “No!” “No! How very rude of you, Lord Delaval! I thought you were the pink of politeness,” she replies, laughing. “I don’t like it because I feel as if you belonged to me, and I don’t care for you to wear what any other man suggests.” “But I don’t belong to you,” she blurts out, on the spur of the moment. “Your feelings make a great mistake if they tell you I do.” “They tell me that you will belong to me, however,” he answers, in a masterful tone, and Zai feels a thrill pass through her--a thrill of fear almost. It is not the first time she has felt it when this man has had a possessive ring in his voice. Five minutes afterwards she has thrown off the feeling, and is dancing away as if her heart was as light as her feet; but when the waltz is over, she leans back against the wall, and wishes that she was dead. “If you have one dance left, Miss Beranger, will you give it to me?” says a voice beside her. Zai starts, the colour flames into her face, her limbs tremble, and her heart beats so that she places her hand unconsciously on it as if to stay the throbs.