Jean took a final and not altogether displeased survey of herself in the mirror before descending to the big _salle_ where the fancy-dress ball was to be held. She had had her dinner served to her in her room so that she might rest the longer, and now, as there came wafted to her ears the preliminary grunts and squeals and snatches of melody of the hotel orchestra in process of tuning up, she was conscious of a pleasant glow of anticipation. There was nothing strikingly original about the conception of her costume. It represented “Autumn,” and had been designed for a fancy-dress ball of more than a year ago--before the death of Jacqueline had suddenly shuttered down all gaiety and mirth at Beirnfels. But, simple as it was, it had been carried out by an artist in colour, and the filmy diaphanous layers of brown and orange and scarlet, one over the other, zoned with a girdle of autumn-tinted leaves, served to emphasise the russet of beech-leaf hair and the topaz-gold of hazel eyes. Madame de Varigny’s glance swept the girl with approval as they entered the great _salle_ together. “But it is charming, your costume! _Regarde_, Henri”--turning to the Count, who, as a swashbuckling d’Artagnan, was getting into difficulties with his sword. “Has it not distinction--this costume_ d’automne?_” The Count retrieved himself and, hitching his sword once more into position, poured forth an unembarrassed stream of Gallic compliment. Madame de Varigny herself was looking supremely handsome as Cleopatra. Jean reflected that her eyes,--slumberous and profound, with their dusky frame of lashes and that strange implacability she always sensed in them--might very well have been the eyes of the Egyptian queen herself. The _salle_ was filling up rapidly. Jean, who did not anticipate dancing overmuch, as she had made but few acquaintances in the hotel, watched the colourful, shifting scene with interest. There was the usual miscellany of a masquerade--Pierrots jostling against Kings and Cossacks, Marie Antoinettes flaunting their jewels before the eyes of demure-faced nuns, with here and there an occasional costume of outstanding originality or merit of design. Contrary to her expectations, however, Jean soon found herself with more partners than she had dances to bestow, and, newly emancipated from the rigour of her year’s mourning, she threw herself into the enjoyment of the moment with all the long repressed enthusiasm of her youth. *****