When Mark Jervis came all eagerness to claim his supper dance from Miss Gordon, he saw at once that something was wrong. The merry smile--her greatest charm--he sought in vain upon her face; her expression was grave, almost stern. She was actually looking at him as if he was an absolute stranger. _She knew!_ He glanced quickly at her partner, and the mystery was instantly solved. Yes, he recollected the man’s goggling blue eyes. Where had he seen him? Where? The cordial accost-- “Hallo, Jervis! Came out with you in the _Victoria_!” promptly dispelled his last hope. “Yes, so you did,” nodding. “Glad to see you here to-night. I suppose you have been globe-trotting, like the rest of us!” “_You_ have not done much trotting, by all accounts, of late.” “No, not much,” rather shortly. Then, to Honor, “This is our waltz.” She gazed at him for an instant in haughty silence, then she answered-- “Yes; but I don’t think I shall dance, thank you.” “Oh do,” he urged, as the stranger moved off. “Let us have just one dance. After the dance--the deluge! I see you know. We can have that out later on--but _don’t_ let us miss this.” The young lady was passionately fond of dancing, the floor, the inspiriting waltz, a first-rate partner, proved too tempting--“Yes,” she said to herself, “just one last waltz, and then--the deluge.” Not one word did she utter when they halted for a few seconds. She kept her face purposely averted, and appeared to find an absorbing interest in other people. When they once more launched into the vortex, it appeared to him that she did not dance with her usual buoyancy and light-heartedness. She was as stiff and as rigid as a china doll--apparently she shrank from the support of a millionaire’s arm--his embrace was contamination. At last the waltz was over, every one was streaming out, and they naturally followed the crowd. They passed Mrs. Brande, concealing (she fondly believed) enormous yawns behind a black transparent fan; they passed Mrs. Langrishe, issuing bulletins of Sir Gloster’s condition to several interested matrons. They went through the verandah side by side, down the steps, and were brought up at last by the rustic railing overlooking the gardens and tennis-court. It was a warm moonlight night, bright as day, and breathlessly still. Dozens of other couples were strolling, standing, or sitting about in the open air, even the chaperons had come forth (a new and in some instances fatal departure) to taste the sweets of a June night in the Himalayas. Before their eyes rose the long range of snows--India’s white crown; beneath them lay the gardens--a jungle of dew-steeped roses, tall lilies, and great shrubs of heliotrope. Balsac declares that perfume reminds more vividly than words; be that as it may, the slightest perfume of heliotrope invariably recalled that scene and hour to Honor Gordon’s memory.