“Yes; but come out of this crowd. It’s awfully hot, and you look like the whitest lily, Zai--we’ll find a seat somewhere.” So they go out, and he finds a chair for her in a vestibule, where a little cool air revives her. “I _must_ go. I have to dance this with Lady Vernon. Do you mind sitting here quietly till I come back?” he asks kindly, seeing how weary and wan she looks. “I should like to stay quiet here very much,” Zai answers gratefully; “and don’t hurry back for me.” She half closes her eyes, and fans herself slowly, and feels desolate--so desolate. Her womanly triumph over Miss Meredyth has evidently fallen to the ground; Lord Delaval has either changed his mind, or else he was only laughing at her at Caryllon House--and as she thinks thus, Zai shivers with mortification and shame, and leaning her head against the wall, grows lost to external things. She does not know how long she has sat here, and she does not care--all she yearns for is the solitude of her own room; but the ball is not half over, and hours--dreary hours--lie before her. “Zai! is it to be--Yes?” She starts up, flushing red as a rose--her heart beating wildly, her eyes with a dumb wonder in them. She is but a bit of a girl, she has been cruelly jilted by the man she loves, and she craves for a little incense to her _amour propre_, even though it be dearly bought. “It is--yes,” she almost whispers; then in a sort of mist she sees Lord Delaval’s face light up, and the colour creeps warmly over his blond skin. “Thank you, my darling!” he says very low, bending over her, and she feels his lips touch her bare shoulder. Then she puts her hand on his arm, and without another word they walk back into the ball-room, and up to Lady Beranger. “Let me present to you the future Lady Delaval!” he says quietly, and Zai slips her ice-cold fingers into her mother’s clasp, and for the first time her mother looks at her with positive affection in her glance. “Is it true, Zai!” she asks, eagerly. “Quite true, Mamma,” Zai answers without a falter. A little later the news has been told to the Royalties, and with kindly smiles and words they give their congratulations on her future happiness. But though the Royalties know of the match in prospective, Zai pleads that it may be kept a secret from her sisters for the present. It may be that the death and burial of her first love is too recent to permit of matrimonial rejoicings just now, or it may be that she wants to realise what has come to pass, and to resign herself to the future before the others touch upon the subject, and probe not too quietly the still open wound made by Carlton Conway. Lord and Lady Beranger are too well pleased that matters have turned out so satisfactorily to refuse her request.