Lavinia was dancing with Monsieur de Morangy. Lionel had never seen her dance. When she had come to England, she knew nothing but the _bolero_, and she had never ventured to dance it under the austere skies of Great Britain. Since then, she had learned our contradances, and she displayed in them the voluptuous grace of the Spaniard combined with an indefinable touch of English prudery, which tempered its exuberance. People stood on the benches to watch her dance. The Comte de Morangy was triumphant. Lionel was lost in the crowd. [Illustration: _LIONEL SURPRISES LAVINIA._ _When Lavinia returned to her place, Lionel--the count's attention being distracted for a moment--glided adroitly to her side, and picked up her fan, which she had just dropped._] There is so much vanity in the heart of man! Lionel suffered bitterly to see her who was long swayed and imprisoned by her love for him, who was once his alone, and whom the world would not have dared to come to take from his arms, now free and proud, encompassed by homage, and finding in every glance revenge or reparation for the past. When she returned to her place, Lionel--the count's attention being distracted for a moment--glided adroitly to her side, and picked up her fan, which she had just dropped. Lavinia did not expect to see him there. A feeble cry escaped her, and her face turned perceptibly pale. "Ah! great heaven!" she exclaimed; "I thought that you were on the road to Bagnères." "Have no fear, madame," he said, in an undertone; "I will not compromise you with the Comte de Morangy." However, he could not restrain himself for long, but soon returned and asked her to dance. She accepted his invitation. "Must I not ask Monsieur le Comte de Morangy's permission also?" he asked. The ball lasted until daybreak; Lady Lavinia was sure of making such functions last as long as she remained. Under cover of the confusion which always creeps into the most orderly festivity as the night advances, Lionel was able to speak with her frequently. That night completely turned his head. Intoxicated by the charms of Lady Blake, spurred on by the rivalry of the count, irritated by the homage of the crowd, which constantly thrust itself between him and her, he strove with all his power to rekindle that extinct passion, and self-esteem made its spur felt so sharply that he left the ball in a state of indescribable excitement. He tried in vain to sleep. Henry, who had paid court to all the women, and danced all the contradances, snored lustily. As soon as he awoke, and while rubbing his eyes, he said: