Cydonia was introduced, dazzling in white, her brown eyes glowing with suppressed excitement. "Can't you spare him a dance? He's an old pal of mine?" McTaggart asked the girl with a subtle air of possession. Cydonia smiled mischievously. "I _might_ give him that extra I half promised you..." "I'll see that you don't!" said her partner aggressively. "Rather!" said Thesiger, entering into the sport. "Which is it, Miss Cadell?--the first, I hope?" Cydonia glanced from one man's face to the other, unusually animated, conscious of her power. "If Peter lets me off--it's the second supper dance." "That's all right." McTaggart laughed--"You're supping with me--you seem to forget that!" "Greedy brute!" Thesiger wrote it down with ostentatious care. "I'll come and look for you. In the supper-room!" The music ceased and a gay crowd passed through the narrow opening dividing the trio. "Upstairs, Cydonia." McTaggart lowered his voice--"and I'm not going to be cheated--even by Archie. Here--I'll lead the way----" he forged ahead, passing the couples preceding them. They reached the second landing, then up the third flight. Here seats were arranged in isolated pairs. "Where does that lead to?" McTaggart, as he spoke, pointed to a narrow passage blocked by palms. "The servants' staircase." Cydonia paused, but her companion deliberately drew the plants aside, holding back the leaves for her to pass. "Come along, quick!" She gave him a glance, then obeyed with a sudden giggle. "I say--this is fine!" He continued to explore, mounting the twisted dingy stairs. "Let's go up and sit on the top." A faint glimmering light showed him the way. "Now--here we are--all to ourselves!" Cydonia, a little scared by her own sense of daring, settled herself, her dress drawn about her, her little feet in their silver shoes shimmering beyond the dead-white brocade. "It's rather narrow..." she suggested; then blushed as McTaggart, unabashed, took the step below. He looked up into the beautiful face, still faintly flushed, transparent as a shell: into brown eyes like some clear woodland pool, where the sunshine through the trees cast golden gleams. His hand stole across and captured the girl's with the pretence of playing with her fan. "Cydonia...!" The word was music in his ears. "How the name suits you--you lovely child!" She drew back a little against the further wall. "No--don't move--Cydonia--are you happy?" He slipped his right arm between her shoulders and the stairs. "There's a cushion for you--isn't that better?" But Cydonia protested, sitting bolt upright. "No--Peter--don't. I'd really ... rather ... not." "Why?--there's no one here. Can't you trust me, sweet?" For McTaggart was drifting on the tide of his desire. He knew, too, it was part of his own fixed plan; no mere folly due to the place and hour.