“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.

“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.

“it is for me to ask that,” she answered. “as for you, you must know something. he always admired her, did he not? he made her the toast at the wells—before he married money. it is all very romantic. he asks her to keep single for his sake—he of all men!—and she refuses a good match, and it gets into the papers, this sentimental story.”

with that my lady threw back her head and watched her darts take effect. he was openly restive under her scrutiny, uneasy too it seemed, and troubled.

“what has this to do with miss chressham?” he asked.

the countess lifted her dead-white shoulders.

“she is the mediator—the friend of miss boyle. she hates me, of course. why not?” a smile curled the thin vermilion lips. “and there is sir francis, a good youth, honestly in love. is my lord too jaded to be goaded into a meeting? perhaps not, so consultations, tears, and susannah chressham pledging herself to prevent bloodshed, miss boyle in despair, and the world laughing!”

marius took a quick turn away from her, then back again. she sat forward, the flame-coloured domino falling apart over the purple dress, the black yet gleaming fan held across her knee like a weapon. the mirror behind reflected her heavy grey curls, the stiff bright roses in among the wreathed pearls and her bare white shoulders.

“should i laugh, marius?” she asked, and her luminous eyes were wild.

“i do not know why you tell me this,” he answered slowly, as if reluctant to speak to her at all; yet he was incapable of silencing her, of escaping her, or even of taking his eyes from her face.

“i suppose it seems nothing to you,” continued the countess, “but i am not one of these people—your people—and to me it is something.”

“what matter can idle scandal like this be to any of us?” said marius desperately.

“it is true,” answered lady lyndwood. “as you know——”

“what have i to do with my lord’s affairs?”

“nothing, perhaps, and something, too, perhaps. at least, you know this is true. were not their names coupled before his marriage?”

marius was silent. the curious impersonal way in which she referred to her husband vexed and galled him, yet he felt a prick of indignation against rose and against selina boyle. the countess was his brother’s wife, marius lyndwood had a strong sense of fairness, a keen instinct for justice and order.

“she hath been enamoured of him since they first met,” said lady lyndwood; “and he, i suppose, is in love with her, or rather, i take it, he fancies an idyll as background to his amusements. either way they scorn to think of me—jack hilton’s daughter! the whole of the town knows now how they have exchanged their sentimentalities over my head.”

“how did it get into the papers?” asked marius heavily.

“i cannot tell.” her voice was contemptuous. “some maid of hers not sufficiently bribed. what does it matter? i think it has been plain enough to everyone from the first.”

“it will matter to miss boyle.”

“do you also think of her—not at all of me?”

he did not answer.

“she is a gentlewoman,” said the countess slowly. “but do you think she hath behaved honourably?”

“why must i accuse her?” he asked, goaded.

“because i think you are not like the others—or thought so once. can you not look at it straightly? he married me for my money, not even troubling to disguise his contempt of me, his liking for another. for a year he exchanges regretful sighs with this other, and the money goes, and the hate increases, and she writes to him. well——”

“the money!” said marius quickly. “is rose in difficulties?”

“what do you imagine?” answered the countess. “you see how he lives? i do not know how long my father can or will endure. my lady is not sparing of her demands.”

“do not speak like that,” interrupted marius hotly. “’tis my family, madam.”

she laughed.

“have i no right to speak? i shall be a pauper also. have i no right to say that i bought my title too dear?”

he admitted that she had; that she had been miserably wronged. he despised his brother and miss boyle together, but he would not say so much to her.

“are you not a little sorry for me?” she asked, gazing at him intently.

“i am sorry for all of us,” he answered bitterly.

the countess rose, holding her opened fan against her chin.

“you cannot guess what my life is,” she said slowly; “nor quite how i hate him.”

marius shuddered.

“i think that you have brought a curse upon us all,” he said, with a dreary laugh. “you could wish no greater vengeance than you have, madam, in seeing us worthy of your scorn.”

the bright silk skirts of the countess rustled as she moved a little away.

“you need not couple yourself with your brother, marius. i do not hate you.”

“why should you, madam?” he asked.

she laughed to think he did not remember the very good cause she had to hate him, and caught the gaudy domino together across her breast.

“what do you mean to do in this business?” she said. “drift—drift, like all your noble house?”

then she was suddenly quiet, and marius turned in the direction of her narrowed glance.

in the tall doorway stood the earl, wrapped in a pink domino, with a mask in his hand.

“is that you, marius?” he asked, in a weary tone, and did not even glance at his wife, shrinking away from him.

marius strode up to his brother.

“i have been searching for you. susannah wishes to speak to you.”

my lord lifted his grey eyes and smiled insolently.

“where is she?”

“i will show you where i left her,” answered marius briefly.

they moved away in silence, two erect figures, much of a height, each with grey curls flowing under the knot of black velvet, and the graceful domino caught over the sword.

neither had given her a word or a look as they left. she crouched against the wall and stared after them.

hesitatingly came the first bars of the melody of a minuet.