"Why did you not come properly masked?" demanded the Countess, setting free his arm. "Anyone could know you." "I had no object to serve in being disguised, madam." "Oh, la!" cried Lady Lyndwood. She flung herself along a pale-coloured settee, a mirror behind her, and loosened her domino, and took off her mask. Her dress was purple, an enormous hoop ruched and frilled, a tight bodice cut low; her face showed an unnatural white, her lips an unshaded scarlet. On the cluster of violets at her bosom powder had fallen, whitening them; in her high-dressed hair were pearls. Marius had never liked these bright colours that she wore, nor associated them with anything that was desirable in woman. He stared at her intently, thinking of muslins and a chip hat in the gardens of the Luxembourg, and brown curls blowing against fresh cheeks. He blamed Rose, something hotly, for this distortion of simple charm into attraction unnatural and fantastically, unhappily splendid; yet he himself found a fascination in her paint, her flaring colours, her scornful eyes. She did it very well, and he could not altogether ignore the fact that she had ransacked her armoury for his conquest. It was flattering, even if unworthy, that she should so well remember that childish romance. He leant against the doorway and waited for her to speak. He was glad to keep on his own mask, and pleased she had removed hers. "What does Miss Chressham want my lord for?" demanded the Countess. "That is her own matter," he answered. The fine dark eyebrows went up. "So--she has not told you?" He was no match for her, and knew it. He resorted to that directness she employed with such effect. "What do you want to say to me, madam?" She leant back, showing her high-heeled shoes under the purple frills. She opened her fan of black and gold, and held it over her mouth. "What do you want me to say to you?" Marius made an effort. "I can think of nothing we have in common." "No? Is that meant to be cruel?" Her right arm lay along the top of the settee; her small hand was near to him; as he looked away from her face he saw it--the black velvet bracelet, the slack fine fingers. It was her right hand he had kissed once in Paris. "I will tell you why Miss Chressham wants to see my lord," said the Countess. He flushed quickly. "It does not involve me, and if she does not herself inform me----" Lady Lyndwood interrupted. "But it involves me, and is hardly so private, since it is already in the _Gazette_." "In the _Gazette_?" "You have not seen it? I dare swear that you are the only one in town who has not." Her keen eyes marked his ill-concealed agitation, and her mouth hardened. "It is not about your cousin; she is only the ambassadress. It concerns her timid little friend, Selina Boyle." "What have either to do with Rose?" demanded Marius.