“Yes, I have a dance--this one,” she says hurriedly, almost incoherently, and unseen by her people or Lord Delaval, she passes through the swaying crowd on Carlton Conway’s arm. “Come out of the room, Zai, we can’t talk here.” Ah! how his voice seems to bring back life and hope and happiness to the love-sick girl. To think! to think! that after all Carl has not thrown her over--that she has been doubting him, doing him injustice all this time. And as they reach the same corridor in which Lord Delaval has just asked her to be his wife, but passing out of it enter a deserted balcony, the moonbeams fall on her face uplifted to her lover’s. “Once more,” Carl murmurs with genuine feeling. “Oh, my love, my own--own love! I have wearied for this!” And clasping her in his arms, he kisses her--kisses her with the old, old passion--on her sweet lips, that smile and quiver with bliss at his touch. “It was not true, Carl, what they told me?” she says very low, with her eyes so wistful and one white arm round his neck. “What did they tell you, Zai?” he asks brokenly. For fickle and light of nature--he cannot look on these sweet wistful eyes--he cannot feel the clinging clasp of this white arm unnerved. “They told me you were going to marry--Miss Meredyth, Carl.” Her heart throbs so fast he can hear it, but though he knows suspense is a terrible thing, for a few moments Carlton Conway gives no answer. CHAPTER VI. IN THE BALCONY. “But you! If you saw with your soul what man am I, You would praise me at least that my soul all through Clove to you--loathing the lives that lie. The souls and lips that are bought and sold, The smiles of silver and the kisses of gold!” Zai looks up hastily at her lover, and her eyes meet his. It is not only at the touching of the lips that spirits rush together, as many believe. Who has not seen the soul leap up into the eyes, and utter there its immortal language far plainer than mortal speech can interpret it--when pride, or honour, or duty, or interestedness has laid an iron hand across the mouth. At such a moment we seem to realise with startling force the existence of the divine spark prisoned in its house of clay. The power of spirit over matter, the subtle imagination which, without words, can lay bare “All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame.” Before Carl can utter a sentence, he half forgets everything in the sweetness of the grey eyes, in the fairness of his young love’s face. “My darling--my own darling,” he whispers, straining her again to his heart, which, to do him justice, he verily believes is devoted to her. “Why have you forgotten me for--Delaval, Zai?” Zai starts and flushes.