With a light laugh at her own sarcasm she left him, and started on a voyage of discovery after Delicia. The people were wedged together in groups at every available point to watch the dancing of “La Marina,” who had commenced her performance, and who was announced for that evening as ‘Mademoiselle Violet de Gascon’ out of deference to the ‘proprieties,’ who might possibly have been shocked had they been too openly told that the _figurante_ was the ‘Empire’s’ famous ‘Marina,’ though they were quite aware of the fact all the time. For in the strange motley we call society, one of the chief rules is that if you know a truth you must never say it; you must say something else, as near to a lie as possible. For example, if you are aware, and everybody else is aware, that a lady of exalted title has outraged, or is outraging, every sense of decency and order in her social and private life, you must always say she is one of the purest and most innocent creatures living. _Of_ course, if she is a nobody, without any rank at all, you are at liberty to give her poor name over to the dogs of slander to rend at will; but if she is a countess or a duchess, you must entirely condone her vulgar vices. Think of her title! Think of her family connections! Think of the manner in which her influence might be brought to bear on some little matter in which you personally have an interest! Lady Brancewith knew all this well enough; she knew exactly how to play her cards, and she was sufficiently a woman of the world to salute ‘La Marina’ with a pretty bow and compliment as soon as her dance was finished, and to express the plaintive wish, uttered sighingly, ‘How glad I should be if I were half so clever!’ Whereat Marina sniffed the air dubiously and said nothing. ‘Jewlia Muggins,’ _alias_ ‘Violet de Gascon,’ knew a thing or two, and was not to be taken in by Lady Brancewith or any of her set. She was keenly disappointed. Delicia had not been present to see her dance, and she had very much wished to create a favourable impression on that ‘sweet thing in white’ as she called her. She had danced her best, gracefully, and with an exquisite modesty; too exquisite for many of the gentlemen assembled, some of whom whispered to each other that she was ‘going off’ a bit, simply because they could not see much above her slender ankles. She herself, however, cared nothing for what they said or thought, and at the conclusion of her dance she boldly asked her hostess where Lady Carlyon was. ‘She has gone home, I am sorry to say,’ was the reply. ‘She is not very well, she tells me; and she found the heat of the room rather trying.’ ‘Are you speaking of the guest of the evening—Lady Carlyon?’ inquired Lady Brancewith, sweetly. ‘Yes. She extremely regretted having to leave so early, but she works hard, you know, and she is not at all robust.’