“It would mean company on a lonely road,” said he. “And cheat death of some of its tragedy, with well-matched partners.” “Did you—did you send me those slippers that I’m wearing?” “What makes you think so?” “The little clog on the back of my programme. It’s the exact fac-simile of one I used to wear.” “I had a little story as near as possible to that of Ally Krimjo. For one morning there was found in the middle of my hall a little garden clog without owner or companion. It came there through barred doors and spring-barred doors, and none could make out how it came there. Not even I. I never learnt it till the night when you came to say your lesson. I proved it when you wore these little satin-covered skates to-night.” “You’ll give it back to me?” “Oh, no! I’m keeping it for luck. That is a lovely stone you’re wearing.” “It’s one I told you of. Dug from the garden with a great big fork and spade, just as a man digs.” “I believe I’ve seen it before in my father’s house.” “No, indeed. Unless your father was the Governor I spoke of.” He laughed. Then at last the dance was over. “I’ve found the lady you asked me for,” said he. “Miss Crokerly is my guardian angel to-night. It is she who discovered her. Here is an excellent place where you may sit and see everything, and hear the music to advantage too.” And then he took her to a seat, and introduced her to a lady sitting there. She was so charming a companion. Her silences were never awkward, and now and again she would give Rosalie information about certain people, all of a good-natured if shrewd kind, that was the highest entertainment. At twelve punctually the company descended to supper. The staircase down was of black marble, and spiral also, like the one above. It had none of the slippery treachery that characterised its sister staircase, though, and it seemed altogether of a much more reliable make. To a spectator the gay colours of the ladies and their sparkling jewels looked like brilliant multicoloured scales on a gigantic serpent, reared pillar-wise to support the vast chamber below. The subterranean banquet hall of Marble House was nothing better, nothing worse than a crypt. It had great and massive pillars of hardened, blackened marble; a fitting support for a fitting house. Its floors were tiled in marble. Its walls of marble too. But whereas a crypt, if lit at all, is content with lamps of oil, or the feeble glimmer of electricity, this place was deluged with light. The most brilliant candelabra hung from the ceilings, sparkling in the thousand glintings of diamond glass. The tables were covered with finest snow-white cloths, and all the decorations were of silver, purest and brightest and most finely worked. And all the flowers were red. Here, screened from view, the band was playing gently. A soft and scented air of luxury arose, as if to show that crypts upon occasion have finer possibilities than dining-rooms.