Where they had come from she didn’t know. She thought they had come from the same source as the first, although they came by post. So that evening she dressed for the real pleasure of the thing. And when it came to pinning the jewel into the bosom of her dress, her hands trembled just because she loved it so. It shed just the same soft shades on to her dress as the light of the moon might shed on to the snow—a passing green and golden and palest blue that melted into white. And on her shoulder the ever—present frog, and a new light in her eyes, because the ice-tears had rolled out of them. And underneath the shining jewel her heart beat quickly. She went with Sir John, Miss Crokerly having preceded them in Mr. Barringcourt’s carriage some time ago. “Do you know,” said she, “I thought at the last minute you’d change your mind and stay away.” “Oh, no,” he replied. “I always go when Barringcourt throws his house open. There are so many things that interest me there.” “Yes. It’s quite after the nature of a museum, is it not?” “Yes. Unlabelled. So that it has an additional charm.” They took their turn in the long line of carriages, and after a considerable time were enabled to alight. There was an awning from the parapet to the door, and the steps were also covered a deep red. Rosalie looked for Everard. He was not there. Two powdered footmen instead. They were not inmates of the Marble House. Neither were any of those who personally waited upon the guests that night. There was not a waiting-maid anywhere about to compare with Mariana, and Rosalie could not have imagined her proud and delicate face amongst that throng. But how different did the wide hall look that night! Brilliantly lit, and with huge fires burning at either end. Fires fit for Festival and freezing weather. And no undue crowding of guests to do away with comfort and beauty and enjoyment. The wide doors to the southern wing, leading to the picture-gallery and conservatory, were thrown open. So also were those to the west, containing the reception rooms—no empty, echoing fireless places now, but full of life and laughter and vivacity. A reception was held first; dancing did not begin till eleven, when a well-known princess was to lead with a gavotte. She was very proud of her instep. At twelve supper was to be served in the large subterranean hall, a place Rosalie had never been in, nor, indeed, anyone else. And after that dancing began again, and continued till four. Then carriages and home. On entering, Rosalie was presented with a programme that explained all this. It was book-shaped, with a mother-of-pearl back, and in the centre a perfect little garden clog with a broken string in gold, and underneath “Christmas 0039”—that being the year as reckoned in Lucifram. “Oh, how charming!” cried one lady, who had just received hers before Rosalie. “An old clog for luck! It is delightful!”