It is impossible for me, without being guilty of positive rudeness, to turn and leave them without a word. I stand, therefore, silent, a pale, slight child, next to her, in all her supercilious beauty--with little of the woman about me except my trailing velvet and golden ring, and glittering, gleaming jewels. "Are you having a good time, Mrs. Carrington?" asks Lady Blanche, sweetly. "Very, thank you," with extreme coldness. "I had no idea I could enjoy anything so much." "You _look_ happy," with increased amiability and a soft, indulgent smile, such as one would use toward an excitable child. "I suppose you still find pleasure in dancing?" "Yes. I believe I have a good many years yet to run before I must, for decency's sake, declare myself tired of it." "Until you are quite an old married woman like me? Yes," with much complacency. "You are fortunate in your partner. All the world acknowledges Sir Mark to be above praise--in the dancing line. Even I"--with a sudden and to _me_ utterly inexplicable glance at the gentleman in question--"can remember how desirable he used to be." Dead silence, and a slight bow on the part of Sir Mark. "Indeed?" say I, turning a smile of exaggerated friendliness upon him. "Then consider how doubly good it is of him to waste _so much_ of his time upon a mere novice like me." I hardly know what prompts this speech. Perhaps a faint remembrance of how at certain times, when conversing with Mark Gore, I have looked across the rooms or gardens, or wherever we might chance to be, and seen a glance that was almost hatred fall on me from her ladyship's eyes. Now, however, my spiteful little speech has no greater effect than to cause Marmaduke's fingers to close with vicious force around the painted satin toy he holds. Why does he not speak? Why will he not even suffer his gaze to meet mine? I feel angry and reckless. He is sitting a little forward, with his head slightly bent and a determined expression upon his face. Is he anxious for my departure? Have I disturbed his interesting _tete-a-tete!_ I will show him how little power he has over me for either joy or sorrow. I turn away, and with a backward careless nod at Lady Blanche, say lightly,--- "Take care you don't suffer for sitting there. There are so _many_ draughts in a conservatory, _We_ even consider the open air safer." And with that, though it was by no means my original intention, I go out through the glass door into the silent starlight night, and even manage to laugh gayly before we are beyond earshot. As we touch the gravel, however, I face Sir Mark, and, foolishly unmindful of how my words may impress him, cry fiercely, "Did you bring me there on purpose?" "_Where?_" he asks, with such wide astonishment as instantly brings me to my senses. I feel overpowered with shame, and try to turn it off, clumsily enough. "Into Lady Blanche's presence," I say, fretfully. "You _know_ that woman always puts me out."