“Not quite,” he answered. “I dined at the Carlton with Bellairs and some men from Woolwich and we had a box at the Empire to see the new ballet. Jolly good it was, too. Will you come one night, if I get up a party?” “Oh, perhaps!” she answered. “Come and dance.” They passed into the great ballroom, the finest in London, brilliant with its magnificent decorations of real flowers, its crowd of uniformed men and beautiful women, its soft yet ever-present throbbing of wonderful music. At the further end of the room, on a slightly raised dais, still receiving her guests, stood the Duchess of Devenham. Penelope gave a little start as they saw who was bowing over her hand. “The Prince!” she exclaimed. Sir Charles whispered something a little under his breath. “I wonder,” she remarked with apparent irrelevance, “whether he dances.” “Shall I go and find out for you?” Sir Charles asked. She had suddenly grown absent. She had the air of scarcely hearing what he said. “Let us stop,” she said. “I am out of breath.” He led her toward the winter garden. They sat by a fountain, listening to the cool play of the water. “Penelope,” Somerfield said a little awkwardly, “I don’t want to presume, you know, nor to have you think that I am foolishly jealous, but you have changed towards me the last few weeks, haven’t you?” “The last few weeks,” she answered, “have been enough to change me toward any one. All the same, I wasn’t conscious of anything particular so far as you are concerned.” “I always thought,” he continued after a moment’s hesitation, “that there was so much prejudice in your country against--against all Asiatic races.” She looked at him steadfastly for a minute. “So there is,” she answered. “What of it?” “Nothing, except that it is a prejudice which you do not seem to share,” he remarked. “In a way I do share it,” she declared, “but there are exceptions, sometimes very wonderful exceptions.” “Prince Maiyo, for instance,” he said bitterly. “Yet a fortnight ago I could have sworn that you hated him.” “I think that I do hate him,” Penelope affirmed. “I try to. I want to. I honestly believe that he deserves my hatred. I have more reason for feeling this way than you know of, Sir Charles.” “If he has dared--” Somerfield began. “He has dared nothing that he ought not to,” Penelope interrupted. “His manners are altogether too perfect. It is the chill faultlessness of the man which is so depressing. Can’t you understand,” she added, speaking in a tone of greater intensity, “that that is why I hate him? Hush!” She gripped his sleeve warningly. There was suddenly the murmur of voices and the trailing of skirts. A little party seemed to have invaded the winter garden--a little party of the principal guests. The Duchess herself came first, and her fingers were resting upon the arm of Prince Maiyo. She stopped to speak to Penelope, and turned afterwards to Somerfield. Prince Maiyo held out his hand for Penelope’s programme.