Could it have been so, and was there a renewal of them? These were the questions self-asked by the _ci-devant_ gentleman-usher. Seemingly answered in the affirmative by what he now saw. For, young as was the younger daughter of Ambrose Powell, she was no child of simplicity, but could play at coquetting with the oldest and cleverest coquette there. If he in her eyes seemed too assiduously attentive to Clarisse, she in his appeared the same with Reginald. An odd position of affairs it was with this _quartette_ of cousins as regarded their feelings towards one another--a play of cross purposes, triangularly twisted and sinister, but in a manner symmetrical. The two men in love with the same woman, the two women loving the same man, yet two of the four not loved at all--as it were, left out in the cold. And these last the ones that were joyous and exultant, the others despondent and sad. Could hearts see into hearts, and read the writing therein, all this would have been reversed; the glad ones would have ceased to be gay, and on the instant, while the sad ones would as suddenly have found joy. But the people so perversely astray could not comprehend one another. Not likely with everything done to hinder it--glances, attitudes, gestures, all meant to deceive. And so the mutual misconception remained throughout the night. Dance succeeded dance, but in none was Eustace Trevor the partner of Vaga Powell. And yet the fault was not with him, though it may appear so. His dancing the first set with Clarisse was quite accidental so far as he was concerned. He had not sought to engage her; on the contrary she seeking him--in a manner commanding him. Officially privileged, she might do so without incurring censure or challenging remark. But when the thing was repeated, and for the second time in succession they were seen standing up together, a whisper went round that it meant something more than mere inadvertency--in short, a decided preference. And so was it with her at least, he neither feeling it nor conscious of her design. For, in truth, he had been on the way to seek Vaga Powell and ask her for the second set, when once more encountering Clarisse, as by chance, she exclaimed, in a half patronising, half-coaxing way,-- "How well you dance, Captain Trevor! So different from all the others." Rather surprised by such a plain-spoken compliment, flattery in fact--he was about to give it this name--but, without waiting his rejoinder, she rattled on,-- "And I hope you're enough satisfied with _my_ dancing to have me for your partner again--you will, won't you?" Solicitation seeming bold, almost to shamelessness. It would have been this in an English girl; but one knowing Clarisse Lalande, her impulsive nature, and the way she had been brought up, could better pardon it.