"But the other is Mrs. Vane's _bon-bouche_ to the house party. She said they deserved a surprise; but I believe she would just as soon let it slide--for she is very tired, Captain Macleod. Only it would be hard on Mr. Gillespie, who is full of his part; besides it really should be the prettiest of all--Mrs. Vane took so much trouble over it." "Are you in it--and Dr. Kennedy?" he asked quickly. "No, only I--and Mr. Gillespie, of course. You see it was for the house party." And Paul, as he went off to do host, wondered angrily what Violet could mean; she always meant something--at least that was his experience of her. The wonder lingered as he sate decorously between Mrs. Woodward and Lady Hooker in the front row, listening between the scenes to the account the latter gave of some tableaux she had got up when they rented the Marquis of Tweedie's place in Peebleshire, and whispering to the former, when the curtain rose finally on Alice as Joan of Arc at the stake, that he hoped it was the last time her daughter would suffer martyrdom in his house. For Paul invariably said the right thing, if it paid him to do so, no matter what his real feelings were at the moment; at the present time they were somewhat mixed; the preponderant one being irritation at the whole round world. And now, that being the last tableau on the programme, the guests were manifestly becoming filled with uneasy wonder as to whether they were expected to make the move or not, when the tinkle of the bell warned them of something more, and after a minute's pause the lights went out suddenly. Then from the darkness came Wagner's "March of the Gods to Walhalla," and the curtain, rising slowly, showed a scene which well deserved the murmur of recognition which ran round the more critical part of the audience. "Shouldn't have thought towel-horses could have done it--but she is a deuced clever little soul," murmured Lord George to his neighbour, and in truth, considering the resources at Mrs. Vane's command, the effect was well-nigh marvellous. In the distance lay a stretch of sea and sky lit by the light of a dying sunset which gained an almost real radiance from the darkness of the foreground, where, with its back to the audience, its foot upon the brink, a mailed figure, sword in hand, bent, as if meditating a leap over the shadowy gulf which lay between it and a low platform of rock overhanging the misty blue depths of the distant sea. And on the rock, her silver helmet laid aside, her head pillowed on her white arm, slept a warrior-maiden with her face turned to the sunsetting. She was clad in soft, filmy, white draperies, but the corselet of silver she wore above them rose and fell evenly with her calm breathing; while round about her--so close that it seemed to touch her wavy hair and silver, wing-shod feet--flickered and flamed a mystic circle of fire.