"Yes, the next is ours," she says, without raising her eyes; and then the band begins again, and Dorian feels her hand upon his arm, and Kennedy bows disconsolately and disappears amid the crowd. "Do you particularly want to dance this?" asks Dorian, with an effort. "No; not much." "Will you come out into the gardens instead? I want--I must speak to you." "You may speak to me here, or in the garden, or any where," says Georgie, rather frightened by the vehemence of his tone. She lets him lead her down the stone steps that lead to the shrubberies outside, and from thence to the gardens. The night is still. The waning moonlight clear as day. All things seem calm and full of rest,--that deepest rest that comes before the awakening. "Who is your new friend?" asks he, abruptly, when silence any longer has become impossible. "Mr. Kennedy. He is not exactly a friend. I met him one night before in all my life, and he was very kind to me----" "One night!" repeats Dorian, ignoring the fact that she yet has something more to say. "One night! What an impression"--unkindly--"he must have made on that memorable occasion, to account for the very warm reception accorded to him this evening!" She turns her head away from him, but makes no reply. "Why did you promise me that dance if you didn't mean giving it?" he goes on, with something in his voice that resembles passion, mixed with pain. "I certainly believed you in earnest when you promised it to me." "You believed right: I did mean it. Am I not giving it?" says Georgie, bewildered, her eyes gleaming, large and troubled, in the white light that illumines the sleeping world. "It is your fault that we are not dancing now. I, for my part, would much rather be inside, with the music, than out here with you, when you talk so unkindly." "I have no doubt you would rather be anywhere than with me," says Dorian, hastily; "and of course this new friend is intensely interesting." "At least he is not rude," says Miss Broughton, calmly, plucking a pale green branch from a laurestinus near her. "I am perfectly convinced he is one of the few faultless people upon earth," says Branscombe, now in a white heat of fury. "I shouldn't dream of aspiring to his level. But yet I think you needn't have given him the dance you promised me." "I didn't," says Miss Broughton, indignantly, in all good faith. "You mean to tell me you hadn't given me the tenth dance half an hour before?" "The tenth! You might as well speak about the hundred and tenth! If it wasn't on my card how could I remember it?" "But it was on your card: I wrote it down myself." "I am sure you are making a mistake," says Miss Broughton, mildly; though in her present frame of mind, I think she would have dearly liked to tell him he is lying. "Then show me your card. If I have blundered in this matter I shall go on my knees to beg your pardon."