There are some men who, like salmon, never go back. They push on, and that which they have gained they hold to though it cost them their lives. Luke FitzHenry was one of these, and Agatha found that in the London ball-room she could take back nothing that she had given on board the Croonah. Luke, it is to be presumed, had old-fashioned theories which have fallen into disuse in these practical modern days wherein we flirt for one night only, for a day, for a week, according to convenience. He could not lay aside the voyage to Malta and that which occurred then as a matter of the past; and Agatha, surprised and at a loss, did not seem to know how to make him do so. She learnt with a new wonder that the rest of this ball--namely, that part of his programme which did not refer to her, the dances he was to dance with partners other than herself--counted as nothing. For him this ball was merely herself. There was not another woman in the room--for him. He told her this and other things. Moreover, the sound of it was quite new to her. For the modern young man does not make serious love to such women as Agatha Ingham-Baker. CHAPTER VI. THE COUNT STANDS BY. La discretion d'un homme est d'autant plus grande qu'on lui demande davantage. "I want you to ask me to dinner!" The Count de Lloseta bowed as he made this remark, and looked at his companion with a smile. At times Mrs. Harrington gave way to a momentary panic in respect to Cipriani de Lloseta--when she was not feeling very well, perhaps. Her situation seemed to be somewhat that of a commander holding an impregnable position against a cunning foe. For every position of such a nature is impenetrable only so long as it can meet and defy each new engine of warfare that is brought against it. And one day the fatal engine is invented. Mrs. Harrington looked into his face with a flicker in her drawn grey eyes. Then she gave a little laugh which was not quite free from uneasiness. "Why?" she asked sardonically. "Have you fallen in love with some one at last?" She knew that this taunt would hurt him. Besides, she liked to throw it at the memory of a woman whom she had hated--Cipriani de Lloseta's dead wife. "I should like to be of your party to-night," he said quietly. She gave another scornful laugh, with that ring of malice in it which thrills in the voice of some elderly women when they speak of young girls. "Eve is to be of our party to-night," she said. "Ah--that would be too absurd--a new Adam! You! But, mind you, Agatha will be here too. You will have to be careful how you play your cards, Don Juan! However, we dine at eight, and I shall be glad to see you." De Lloseta took up his hat and stick. With Mrs. Harrington, and with no one else perhaps in London, he still observed the stiff Spanish manner. He bowed without offering to shake hands, and left her.