"It will give me the greatest pleasure," was his response. He would not have been man--less gentleman--to answer otherwise. Both gallantry and good manners enforced an affirmative. "Consider yourself engaged then!" "By all means, Mademoiselle. For which set?" "Oh! now--the next. I wish it." Another surprise to him, anything but agreeable. It interfered with his intentions, spoiling his own programme. But there was no help for it, no gain saying a wish so plainly expressed, and he stammered out assent with the best grace possible. As the music for the second set was just commencing, she thrust her jewelled fingers inside his arm, and conducted him, rather than he her, back to the place of dancing. It was then Vaga Powell experienced that jealous pang which determined her to the line of action she was pursuing. But it was a jealousy neither new, nor born of that hour; only in that hour reaching the climax and acme of its keenness. Eustace Trevor twice dancing with her cousin, and never coming near herself! Never once, even to say a word, since the one or two of ceremony exchanged between them at his first entering and reception. No wonder at her being a prey to jealousy! But she was not alone in the experience of its misery. He, in his turn, was tasting of it too. When at length released from his engagement with the Creole, inopportune as irksome, and he again sought Vaga Powell, it was to find her in a mood aught but amiable. And with Reginald still by her side--she had no difficulty in retaining _him_--the two seemingly engrossed with one another. Well and skilfully--too well and too skilfully--was the damsel of Dean Forest playing her part. As Eustace approached them, Reginald drew back a pace, and stood in an attitude of dignified stiffness, with a perceptible triumph in his eyes, and something like a sneer on his lips. No word of salutation passed between the cousins now--not even nod of recognition--and one seeing who knew them not would have supposed them utter strangers. Eustace but bowed to the lady; and, as the music was just sounding the prelude to another dance, he asked, in rather a timid, doubting way,-- "May I have you for a partner, Mistress Vaga?" At another time, even earlier that night, he might have addressed her differently and more familiarly--ay, would have been safe in saying--"Let us dance, dear Vaga!" But he had neither thought nor confidence to "dear" her now, nor she the desire to be deared. Curt, and almost disdainful was her answer,-- "Sorry; but I'm engaged." He did not need being told to whom, the triumphant bearing of his cousin declared that; and, with a bow of feigned resignation, and much bitterness of heart, he withdrew, leaving them to themselves. And so the jealous fire, just kindled in his breast, burned on in hers, not that night to be extinguished. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. A PAS-SEUL.