“Oh my, isn’t he elegant, and so chatty! I felt just like talking to Cyrus Hercules Hopkins--that’s my cousin down Chicago way, you know. And the Princess! well, certainly, _she_ isn’t proud! It was just like being at home in our English basement brown stone house, Maddison Avenue--at Buckingham Palace!” Zai laughs, and he rattles on. “That’s one of our big financier’s daughters. Ugly, isn’t she? I hate the type. The _parure_ of brilliants isn’t bad, and those yards of lace--_point D’ Alençon_, isn’t it--that trail about her are worth more than my year’s salary. But they are so devilish stingy in the Offices. We work like slaves, and get neither tin nor _kudös_. And you would not believe it, Zai, but the Foreign Secretary hasn’t more responsibility on his back than I have on mine! See! there’s the famous wife of one of the Ministers--Count Schoen. She has been a celebrated beauty in her day, and cannot forget it. And they say she enamels and bakes her face in an oven. What do you think a cousin of mine--an _ingénue_ from the country--did, at the Caledonian Ball? She went up to the end of the room, and after intently examining Count and Countess Schoen, said aloud, “‘How funny that they have Madame Tussaud’s figures here.’ “Imagine the horror of her partner!” Zai laughs again. But this time the laugh is forced, and she catches her breath hard. Through the swaying crowd she espies Gabrielle among the bevy of beauties. Gabrielle holds her own to-night. Her black lace dress becomes her white creamy skin admirably. Scarlet japonicas burn and gleam in her coal-black hair and on her bosom. On her cheeks, the bright pink flush lends increased lustre to her large dark eyes. As she sweeps along she has that supreme unconsciousness of manner which is never seen save in a woman who feels she is well dressed and able to defy the criticism of her own sex. Gabrielle does not see Zai or Percy Rayne looking at her, for her eyes are mostly cast down on the fan she carries, neither does Lord Delaval, on whose arm she leans, observe them, for he is bending and speaking very low under the sweep of his long fair moustache, while his glance rests on the undeniably very handsome face near his shoulder. “Don’t they make a good looking couple?” asks Rayne. “What a pity they don’t arrange to walk through life together--they look so well doing it through a ball-room.” “They are both handsome,” Zai answers indifferently, but she is, spite of her, a little piqued. This man--to whom her answer has to be given to-night--has not even deemed it worth his while to ask for it, though the evening is wearing on. His neglect hurts her more, sore and suffering so lately from Carlton Conway’s behaviour, and poor little Zai feels that she would like to hide her diminished head for ever. “I am very tired,” she says to her partner; “Do you think I could get a seat somewhere?”