The vague, floating rumours which he had heard, as to the ‘shakiness’ of Mr. Spenceley’s commercial position, recurred to his mind. Probably there was something in them. His own business and that of Mr. Spenceley lay in utterly different lines: he had not come across him in any commercial transactions; but he knew men who had, and who were of opinion that Spenceley was playing rather a dangerous game. During those troublous years some fortunes were made, and many were lost--lost by men who seemed as little likely to fail as Mr. Spenceley of Castle Hill. Sebastian pictured the feelings of his mother, supposing she were to hear any such rumour--his mother who was probably at that moment listening with affecting interest and politeness to some circumlocutory history from the lips of Mrs. Spenceley, _à propos_ either of Fred or of Helena. This was the day on which Helena was to come into--not her whole fortune--that was only to happen at her father’s death, or if she married--but of so much of it as would make her what many people would call a rich woman. Sebastian thought of this, and wondered if the fortune were but ‘A fleeting show For man’s illusion given.’ His thoughts turned persistently to the girl with whom he had so lately been dancing. It was all in her honour, this ghastly, hollow mockery of an entertainment, with its spectres and shadows flitting and stealing about. All for her! She was crowned with roses, which were indeed the fitting flower for so beautiful a rose as she was herself. Those great pearls round her neck, and those massive bracelets on her slender arm--his mind recalled each item of her dress, and, as it were, every line of her beauty; he saw her standing, as she had stood more than once that evening, with a crowd round her, of friends and well-wishers--for she was popular--who congratulated her, and brought her flowers and bouquets--chiefly roses--the flowers of love and triumph. And ever, as he pictured her thus, that shadowy, stealing figure seemed to lurk and crouch behind them, now uncovering its face a little, and then, with a smile of weird meaning, drawing the veil again. He shuddered a little, and turned hastily towards the ball-room; stood in the doorway and looked. Yes, there was Helena with Hugo; he was glad she was with Hugo; smiling and laughing with him, as they flew swiftly by, past the door, and her perfumed skirts brushed him and sent an odd little thrill through him. The ball progressed, and the evening drew drearier and drearier; he heard the excuses made by Mrs. Spenceley, and saw the care growing darker upon her brow; he heard the regrets of the guests, and saw the increasing uneasiness of the looks cast about him by Fred, with a strange sense that he alone could, if he chose, point the way upstairs and say, ‘You will find the explanation of all, if you go there and ask.’