Louis Berkman alone had lost all the bizarre effect of the finish, and been absorbed in the dance. “A poem in motion, superb!” he exclaimed, with such genuine enthusiasm that Margaret’s expression softened. The French ambassador was still softly applauding. It appeared that he had seen Bernhardt execute the same figures once; “but madame’s performance was more exquisite, an interpretation, the very expression of the music itself!” “Naturally,” laughed Margaret maliciously, “I’m an American, ambassador. Did you dream that even Bernhardt could excel one?” “_Bien!_ I admire your patriotism, also,” he replied smiling. “Oh, it’s only the screech of the eagle! Of course you are all enthusiastic--all except you, William,” she added abruptly, whirling around to confront Fox with a teasing glance, “you are mute; didn’t I please you?” He smiled. “You bewildered me; the sudden transitions are confusing. Where did you learn the dance?” She put her head on one side. “Last week--that’s all I shall ever tell you!” she replied, “but I want Bobby Allestree to paint my portrait dancing. Wicklow would prize it so highly,” and she laughed wickedly. “Allestree is painting a portrait now, I think,” Fox said, to turn her aside from a dangerous channel, “Miss Temple’s, I believe.” Margaret’s eyes widened and she looked keenly at him, an indescribable change in her face. “Rose--yes,” she said slowly, “have you seen it?” He shook his head. “I saw her for the first time to-night.” She made no immediate reply. M. de Caillou and Berkman had begun to talk together, and the others were already engaged in animated conversation; the controversy between the Italian and the Frenchman having been resumed was rising in a staccato duet. Fox was abruptly aware of a stir in the room beyond and surmised the arrival of evening guests, but his hostess was apparently oblivious. “She is supremely lovely at times,” she said quietly, after a moment, “but--but not exactly a beauty. What do you think of her?” Fox parried the question easily. “My dear Margaret, I only saw her for a moment getting into her carriage.” She gave him a searching glance and bit her lip. He thought he had never seen her wear so entirely the air of a spoiled child; her flushed cheeks, her slightly rumpled hair and the angry droop of her eyes, all appealed for praise and resented criticism. “Allestree is painting her on his knees,” she said, with a little bitter laugh; “he doesn’t regard her as human; you will see that he will make me the imp to her angel, he--” “Margaret!” Mr. White was hurrying forward, with the ruffled manner of an affronted host; “are you blind as well as deaf, my dear?” he asked curtly, “here are your guests!”