But to all of these she excused herself. She was not feeling well, she declared, and as yet could not possibly dance. So by degrees her court slowly dissolved, and for a time she and Dudley were left alone. As may be imagined, there was much whispering in all quarters about her re-appearance in public with Chisholm. They sat out several dances in a cool anteroom, dimly lit and filled with palms. In the half darkness they clasped hands, but they spoke very little, fearing lest others might overhear. Chisholm sat as one dead to all around him. As he passed through the great ballroom with its myriad lights and restless crowd he had mechanically returned the salutes of those who knew him, without recognising a single man or woman. In his present mood friends and enemies were alike to him--all of them so many shapes from the past. To the woman at his side he clung, and to her alone. The memory of their bygone happiness he could not put aside. He would be compelled to make his _adieux_ to life very soon--perhaps, indeed, in a few hours-- and his only regret was for her. He could tell her nothing, and when he was dead she, like the others, would spurn his memory. That thought caused him to grip the small, white-gloved hand he held. His lips moved convulsively, but in that subdued light Claudia could not detect his agitation. He was unusually sad and apprehensive, fearful of some impending catastrophe--that was all she knew. She had tried to arouse him by making caustic and amusing criticisms regarding those about them, but all to no purpose. Her witticisms provoked no smile. He seemed utterly lost in his melancholy reflections. "Listen!" she said at last. "There's a waltz. Let us go." She rose and led him into the ballroom, where a moment later they were whirling along together in the smart crowd, compelling even jealous onlookers to describe them as splendidly matched. As Dudley steered his beautiful partner among the other dancers the music caused a flow of sad memories to surge through his brain--memories of the hundreds of balls at which they had been happy in each other's love. He laughed bitterly within himself as he saw her smile at a man she knew. Yes, when he was dead she would, he supposed, mourn for him for the first day and forget him on the second, just as completely as she had forgotten her indulgent husband. He saw that look of recognition exchanged between them; but the man's face was unfamiliar. He was young, rather sallow-faced, with a dark-brown beard. But he made no comment. As this waltz was their last, why should he spoil it? Upon her all argument was expended in vain, he declared to himself bitterly. The floor was perfect, the music excellent, and quickly the old flush of pleasure came back to her face. "You are enjoying it?" he whispered to her. "And why don't you, Dudley?" she asked. "You really ought to put on a more pleasant expression. People will remark upon it."