“Stop, Captain Ferrers,” she coldly said. “I will dance with this--this Monsieur Mornay.” Her tone was frozen through and through with the bitterness of utter contempt. And then, giving Mornay her fingers, she went with him to the middle of the gallery. While the company, too interested or amazed to follow in the dance, stood along the walls of the ballroom, Mistress Barbara Clerke and Monsieur Mornay ran through the mazes of the dance. Mornay moved with an incomparable grace and skill. It was a dance from Paris, and every turn of the wrist, neck, or heel proclaimed him master. From his face one could only discover the signal joy he felt at being honored by so gracious and beautiful a companion. The countenance of Mistress Clerke betrayed a less fortunate disposition. In the bitterness of her defeat by this man whom she had promised herself publicly to demean, she maintained her outward composure with difficulty. The physical action of dancing gave her some relief, but as she faced him her eyes blazed with hatred and her fingers, fairly spurning a contact, chilled him with the rigidness of their antipathy. Twice they made the round of the room, when Ferrers, who had mounted the steps into the loft, bade the musicians stop playing. A look of relief chased the scorn for a moment from Mistress Barbara’s face, and, as though half unconscious of Mornay’s presence, she said aloud, in a kind of gasp: “Thank God, ’tis done!” They stood opposite an open window that led to the garden. Mornay frowned at her. “And the hour alone?” he asked. “Surely madame cannot so soon have forgotten?” Her gray eyes had turned as dark as the open window looking into the night, and the lids which her scorn let down to hide her anger concealed but in part the smoldering light of her passion. “It is preposterous, monsieur!” she said, chokingly. “I cannot! I will not!” “And your promise, madame. Mistress Clerke will forget her promise?” She looked about helplessly, as though seeking a way to escape. But Mornay was merciless. “Perhaps, madame, you fear!” he said, ironically. He had judged her aright. With a look that might have killed had Mornay been made of more tender stuff, she caught her gown upon her arm and swept past him out into the darkness of the terrace beyond. The air was warm and fragrant, full of the first sweet freshness of the summer. The light of the moon sifted softly through the haze that had fallen over the gardens and trembled upon each dewy blade and leaf. It was so peaceful and quiet!--so far removed from rancor and hatred!--a night for fondness, gentleness, and all the soft confidences of a tenderness divine and all-excelling--a night for love! This thought came to them both at the same moment--to Mistress Barbara with a sense of humiliation and anger, followed by the burst of passion she had struggled so long to control. She stopped in the middle of the garden-walk and turned on him: