He thought of them again when he was at the Stannards’ ball, although there was no reason why they should recur to his memory just then. Perhaps it was because the face of his partner reminded him of the features he had given to the Magdalene. He often found resemblances between the people he met and characters in his pictures. The ball-room was crowded with quite a galaxy of fresh-complexioned country girls escorted in the dance by the young scions of the neighbouring county families; whilst on the platform which bounded the room were ranged in solemn state their chaperons. The absence of Celia Franks caused universal regret; but to one of the guests, at least, the cloud had a silver lining. This was Lady Marjorie Stonor. “You will let me give you a lift, if you have not ordered your dog-cart to come for you to-night?” she said to the artist, as soon as she found his sister was not there. She did not wish to miss the opportunity of a moonlight drive with him alone. “It is very kind of you,” he replied politely. “But I have accepted Major Denham’s offer of a seat in his motor-car.” His refusal almost sounded like a rebuff, but the young widow did not take it in that light. Instead, she flashed him a glance out of those wonderful blue eyes of hers. “It is such a long drive,” she murmured with a sigh, “and I am all alone. Cannot you countermand your acceptance?” He would have been more than mortal if he could have withstood such a look and such an appeal. “It shall be as you wish; I shall be delighted to be your escort,” he answered gallantly, lifting up her programme in order to reserve the conventional three dances for himself. Lady Marjorie looked her best that evening; and was, perhaps, conscious of the fact. She was dressed in white: yet not girlish white, for her gown was elaborately trimmed with incrustations of handsome lace, in the centre of each of which gleamed a minute ruby. The cluster of red roses at her breast set off to advantage the creamy smoothness of her neck and shoulders. The diamonds in her hair and at her throat seemed to enhance the air of distinction which was hers by birth. To Herbert Karne she was by far the most brilliant woman in the room, although not being given to indulge in compliments he did not tell her so. But he spent every available moment by her side, and insisted on claiming all the extra dances. For once he broke through his customary reserve, and seemed suddenly to have become an impetuous youth again. Lady Marjorie was glad that it should be so. To waltz with him to the entrancing strains of the “Blue Danube,” or to sit out with him in the flower-bedecked alcoves afforded her infinite delight. She knew that she was monopolizing the best dancer in the room, and that people were watching and might talk; but her eyes shone defiance at them all.