"Your card is full," says Branscombe, in a tone that suggests a national calamity. "Would you--would you throw over one of these fellows for me?" "I would, in a minute," says Miss Broughton, naïvely; "but, if he found me out afterwards, would he be angry?" "He sha'n't find you out. I'll take care of that. The crowd is intense. Of course"--slowly--"I won't ask you to do it, unless you wish it. Do you?" "There is one name on that card I can't bear," says Miss Broughton, with her eyes fixed upon a flower she holds. Her dark lashes have fallen upon her cheeks, and lie there like twin shadows. He can see nothing but her mobile lips and delicately pencilled brows. He is watching her closely, and now wonders vaguely if she is a baby or a coquette. "Show me the man you would discard," he says, running her pencil down her programme. "There,--stop there. The name is Huntley, is it not? Yes. Well, he is old, and fat, and horrid; and I know he can't dance. You may draw the pencil across his name,--if you are sure, _quite sure_, he won't find me out." "He shall not. But I would far rather you condemned that fair-haired fellow you were talking to just now," says Dorian, who is vaguely, faintly jealous of young Bellew. "But he is so much nicer than Mr. Huntley," declares Georgie, earnestly: "and he was my first partner, and I promised him so faithfully to keep this dance for him." "He'll never see you in the crush," says Branscombe. "But I told him exactly where to find me." "It is the most difficult thing in the world to be anywhere at the precise moment stated." "But I should _like_ to dance with him again," declares Miss Broughton, innocently, being driven into a corner. "Oh, of course that ends the matter," says Dorian, in an impossible tone, drawing the pencil with much uncalled-for energy across Mr. Huntley's name. Then some other man comes up, and claims the little wilful beauty for the waltz then playing, and, carrying her off in triumph, leaves Branscombe alone. CHAPTER XVII. "It is the hydra of calamities, The sevenfold death: the jealous are the Damn'd."--YOUNG. Having watched her until the last fold of her gown has disappeared, Branscombe turns abruptly away, and, passing through a glass door that leads into the gardens outside, paces slowly up and down the winding paths beneath the subdued light of countless Chinese lanterns, that, hanging amidst the foliage, contrast oddly with the cold white brilliancy of the stars overhead, that "Rush forth in myriads, as to wage War with the lines of darkness." Cold as the night air is, not a breath of wind comes to disturb the strange calm that hangs over land and sea. Far down in the bay the ocean lies at rest. From the distance a faint sound of music from the band comes softly, seductively to the ear, but beyond and above it comes the song of the nightingale that, resting in yonder thicket, pours forth its heart in tender hurried melody, as though fearful the night will be