The Lady Etwynde smiles sadly. "You do not understand--it is merely a technical term for those outside the pale. Progress and culture mean enlightenment--we all need to be enlightened. Our individual tendencies are hampered by social restrictions. But the soul will find its wings and soar above such paltry barriers. Women will take their place in the ranks of the advanced, and the mockers at progress will have to recognize its truth, and feel that it is a law powerful enough to sway the whole machinery of civilization, and lift it upwards to a grander and loftier life." "Good Heavens! what a dreadful woman," thinks Mrs. Douglas. "I--I have not thought much of such things," she says aloud. "I am not a clever woman, like yourself, dear Lady Etwynde. But I really think we are very happy as we are. What good can progress do?" "Ah!" sighs Lady Etwynde. "The old cry of the world--the battle-cry of the human race, that is ever so obstinately opposed to its own good. When we cease to oppose, and investigate instead--when prejudice and obstinacy give way to thoughtfulness and consideration, then some proper basis will have been obtained on which to establish the glories of Progress, and the sublimity of Culture." Mrs. Douglas feels too hopelessly bewildered after this speech to pursue the subject. She gives a sigh, and resigns herself to incomprehensibility; but the entrance of the gentlemen makes a slight disturbance, and the Lady Etwynde lapses into thought. Unknown to each other, both of them are watching the same man--the tall, well-knit figure of Keith Athelstone. He stands a little apart from the group; his face is very grave and very pale. There are dark shadows like a bruise under his eyes, and the drooped lids hide their expression. Perhaps it is as well. They are eyes more given to reveal than to conceal. The other men draw nearer to the dazzling groups of silk and satin and lace. Some one goes to the piano, and begins to play. Through the open window a faint breeze steals, and, weighted with perfume, floats through the soft-lighted rooms. "He only looks at _her_," sighs Lady Etwynde. "Why doesn't the silly boy go and talk to some of those women?" Mrs. Douglas says to herself angrily. "Does he really care for her still? How absurd! And how ill he looks--as if he hadn't slept for weeks; but perhaps that's dissipation. He's sure to have his full share of it now." Meanwhile Keith stands there absorbed and grave. He has not spoken to Lauraine all the evening. He is wondering whether he might seek her now--whether her duties as hostess will permit her to give five minutes to him. But even as he thinks it, he lifts his eyes, and meets a signal from the gracefully waving fan of the Lady Etwynde. He has no choice but to cross the room and take the seat by her side.