“Where is Rose?” asked Miss Chressham anxiously.

“Ye are very impatient to find him,” answered Marius. “And how may we know him in this throng?”

They stepped aside into an alcove set with card-tables, and Susannah gazed away from her companion and down the crowded ballroom.

“We came here to find him,” she answered. “I told you that, Marius, when I desired you to bring me. You know that I must see him—that I endeavoured to gain speech with him last night. To-day——”

“But you have confided no further in me.”

Miss Chressham replied sharply, almost angrily.

“Marius, you are quite unreasonable. You know that I want to speak with my lord on a matter not my own. I have a message for him, and one not easily put on paper.”

“And you are unreasonable,” retorted Marius gloomily, “to suppose we could ever find one in particular in this.” He indicated the crowd that passed and repassed before them. Everyone was disguised in a fantastic, ridiculous, or gorgeous fashion, and everyone was masked. Of all the habits there he could only identify one—the scarlet and orange domino Lady Lyndwood had told him she would wear.

Miss Chressham sighed impatiently. She, like her cousin, wore a simple black cloak and mask.

“If I but knew what he was wearing,” she said.

Marius blushed under his vizard. The Countess might know at least the colour of her husband’s domino; but he would not admit to Miss Chressham that Lady Lyndwood had accompanied her invitation with a description of her dress, so he stood silent, staring resentfully at the yellow and red domino.

“I suppose they will unmask at midnight,” continued Miss Chressham, “and if Rose be still here——”

From the musicians’ gallery came the sound of fiddles. The great room slowly cleared; the precise and animating music of a gavotte came sharply across the laughter and talk. Four couples stood up to dance; the rest moved aside to watch them.

One of the dancers was the mask in red and yellow. It seemed to Marius that she looked straight across the ballroom at him, and that she knew him—at least, her head seemed always turned in his direction.

At the commencement of the second figure a lady in white detached herself from the spectators and approached towards the two by the empty card-tables. She passed Marius in a quick, agitated manner, and caught Miss Chressham by the hand.

“Susannah,” she whispered, and pulled off her mask.

“Selina!”

The mask was replaced. Both ladies checked themselves and looked at Marius.

“My cousin,” murmured Susannah. “You remember him?”

Miss Boyle curtsied.

“I knew you both; you are very poorly disguised.” She forced a laugh. “Are you not dancing, Captain Lyndwood?”

“I am not in much of a holiday mood, madam,” he replied. He was so watchful of Susannah, so sensitive to every change in her tone and manner, that he was perfectly aware that she wished him to leave her alone with Miss Boyle. He made some excuse and moved away.

Selina Boyle sank on to one of the slender chairs by the card-table.

“You have not seen him?” she whispered.

“No; that is, therefore, why I am here to-night. Nothing has been done.”

“Yet Francis knows; he affects to laugh, but I believe him furious. I fear he has come here to meet my lord.” She paused, panting.

“I have done all that I could,” answered Susannah. “I sent to Lyndwood House last night, but Rose was abroad. I sent again in the morning. He had returned, but was gone again. I was assured he would be at this masque. Marius had a ticket, and I took my lady’s, who was weary.”

“Ah, you are very good to me,” murmured Miss Boyle. “If I were not so distracted—so agitated—I might make some shift to thank you. Had it not been for you I should have lost courage and fled from town.”

“I entreat you,” interrupted Susannah, “do not mock me, dear. And how are we to find Rose? I have no idea what he is wearing.”

Selina looked desperately down the ballroom, and her glance fell on Marius.

“Does he not know,” she asked—“Captain Lyndwood?”

“Oh, nothing, my dear. He never looks at the papers, and hardly sees anyone.” Miss Chressham’s eyes were bright through the holes of her mask. “He is drifting, I fear, like Rose—like all of them.”

Miss Boyle hung her head and was silent.

The light and charming music of the gavotte repeated itself; the bright-hued dresses of the dancers formed graceful moving patterns on the polished floor; the glow of a thousand wax candles and the soft sound of laughing voices were diffused very pleasantly.

Marius glanced covertly at his cousin and Miss Boyle. They were conversing together in low, earnest tones, neither taking any heed of him. He moved still further away, so as not to appear to court their notice, and walked languidly down the ballroom.

The dance came to an end. The orange and red domino left her partner and came straight to Marius Lyndwood.

She held out her hand, and he could not pretend that he did not know her, but he gave her greeting of the coldest.

“I did not think to be here, Lady Lyndwood. Chance brought me.”

“How eager you are to explain that!” she answered in her clear, scornful tone. “All the evening you have had that speech on your tongue: ‘I did not come because you asked me, because you told me the colour of your dress, but—chance brought me!’ Well, since you are here, it is much the same, is it not?”

“I came because Miss Chressham desired it,” he answered stiffly, “and to see my lord. He is here?”

“Is it you or your cousin who wishes to see my lord?” asked the Countess. “Your cousin, of course.” And she laughed.

“Is he here, my lady?” repeated Marius angrily.

“Oh yes, he is here—courting Miss Trefusis, who is quite the fashion now. But shall we not be remarked?” Her hand slipped under his domino and clung to his velvet sleeve. “Take me out of the ballroom.”

She led him into an antechamber, a small place of mirrors and satin chairs, lit, not too brightly, with tall white candles.

“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.

&l............