Conversation was here interrupted by a figure leaping on the model-stand, while at the same instant a blinding white light was thrown from the gallery upon it. There was a ripple of applause and the Earl, a beardless youth of perhaps twenty, bowed. He looked like a girl in his clinging fluted skirts. He was a scion of an ancient noble family, founded by an affectionate dancer of the opposite sex in the reign of the second Charles, and it was quite in the regular order of things that there should be a recrudescence of terpsichorean ability in the latest member of the house. The white light changed to red and the skirt dance began. As it went on it was received with tumultuous applause, for a London audience is always easy to please, especially when there is no charge for admission at the doors. Still it must be admitted that the sprightly little Earl deserved the warmth of his reception, for his exhibition was a model of grace and agility, while his manipulation of the voluminous skirts left little to be desired. The variegated colours thrown on the fluttering whirling drapery gave a weird unearthly effect to the rapid movements of his Grace, and the grand finale, where a crimson light was flung upon the flimsy silk waving high above the dancer’s head, gave the agile young nobleman the appearance of one of the early martyrs wrapped in flames. The curtains were drawn back, the entranced assemblage rose to its feet, and, gathering about the host, congratulated him upon the success of his afternoon. Barney received these felicitations with exuberant gratification, and the young Earl, finally emerging from behind the scenes, clothed and in his right mind, but a trifle breathless, accepted modestly his well-earned share of the compliments, for, let cynics say what they will, true merit is always sure of appreciation in the great city. Edna Sartwell lingered for a moment on the outskirts of the throng that pressed around Barney and the little Earl, then leisurely made her way towards the door, waiting for her step-mother, who lingered to thank her host. The men who had stood along the wall were already in the street, and the other visitors had nearly all departed. Marsten stood alone where he was when the entertainment was going on, gazing with beating heart at the girl he loved. She came slowly towards him, her head averted, watching her step-mother standing in the fast thinning group about Barney. There was a certain unconsciousness about her movements, as if the young man had hypnotized her, and was drawing her to him by mere force of will. At last her skirts touched him and his nerves tingled to his finger ends. Almost involuntarily, he murmured: “Miss Sartwell.” The girl turned her head quickly, and for a moment met his gaze without recognizing him. “My name is Marsten,” he said huskily, seeing she did not know him. “I met you the other evening at your fathers office, when he and I were talking of the strike.”