"And so lose the keen sense of pleasure you now possess. What a mistake! Take my advice, and don't go through a London season." "What stupid advice. Indeed I _shall_, and enjoy it too, I am only longing for the time to come round. I shall be dreaming of it from now until then." "You are bent on rushing wildly to your fate," says he, smiling. "Well, do so, and rue it later on. When you come to look on dancing, not as a good thing in itself, but merely as a means to an end, remember I warned you." "I will remember nothing," I say, saucily, "except that I am at this moment without a care in the world. Come, let us go in." Sir Mark hesitates. "Shall we finish the dance first?" "No," I am looking longingly into the cool green light of the conservatory beyond me. "See how delicious it is in there. Let us find a seat." Still he hesitates, as though unwilling to move in the desired direction. "It seems a pity to lose this music," he says. "Afterwards we could rest." I turn my eyes mischievously upon him. "_Who?_ is keen about dancing now?" I ask, gayly. "Not _I_. For my part, I pine for a sofa. As you _will_ have it, I confess I am just a little wee bit tired." We walk on through the outer nest of flowers into the smaller one beyond, which is if anything dimlier lit, calmer, more subtly perfumed. The nameless fragrance is everywhere, the splash, splash of a small fountain falls soothingly on the ear; the music, though distinct, is strangely, dreamily distant. Some tall shrubs are dispersed here and there; behind them cozy seats are hidden; shadows of a darker shade envelope them. As with purposeless steps I pass by a rather larger one of these I suddenly find myself face to face with Lady Blanche Going and--Marmaduke. Now there is no earthly reason why they should not be here alone together; hundreds of other couples, tired and warm from dancing, have probably done the same; yet, as my eyes fall upon them, a strange feeling that is partly anger, partly pain, troubles me. All my gay wild spirits sink and disappear. I know my face has lost its vivacity and expresses only surprise and chagrin. As my glance fastens more directly upon Duke, I see he too is looking unlike himself. There is a dark, almost fierce expression in his eyes; his lips are compressed. A slight movement of the thin nostrils as he draws his breath tells me he is evidently suppressing some strong emotion. Her ladyship, exquisitely lovely in deep cream-colored silk, with something scarlet in her dark hair, is nestling among the crimson cushions of the lounge, and does not deign to raise herself as we approach. Her eyes are a degree larger, more languid than usual; her complexion, always good, is perfect in this soft light. Her fan is in my husband's hands.