the contre-danse had come to an end. the earl led miss trefusis back to her place, kissed her hand with a half-lazy glance into her languishing eyes, and turned slowly down the ballroom.

it was after supper, and everyone was unmasked. my lord, in no mood for the unrestrained gaieties of the crowd, stepped into the garden and heard the chimes of st. james’s church that miss chressham listened to in her darkened drawing-room. the garden was full of may trees and limes, brightly lit with coloured lamps and filled with the melody of violins that floated from the pavilion on the lake.

rose lyndwood, avoiding his acquaintances and choosing the less frequented paths, wandered down to the water’s edge. he had no design nor intention in his mind, no one passion dominated his heart; but he was in the mood to meet anything that might arise. there was nothing reckless in his bearing. he walked quietly, slowly, his head bent and the pink domino falling from his shoulders. he held up his rapier that it might not catch in the laurels.

as he neared the water he paused to break from its stem a pale rose that fell across his path—a flower-like faint flame that seemed as if it had been created suddenly out of the darkness. when he looked up he saw selina boyle, standing a few feet away from him under a rosy lamp that cast a blushing radiance over her white dress. beyond her the bushes falling apart revealed a lattice overgrown with jasmine, and a party of ladies and gentlemen laughing over a supper-table.

the earl slipped the rose stem through the brooch in his cravat, and laughed.

miss boyle moved a little away; it seemed as if she would rejoin her companions without a word to him. her delicate head was very erect above the folds of her fine scarf.

“what chance brought me here?” said the earl softly. “good luck or bad?”

she hesitated, stopped and looked at him as if she wished to speak but could not.

my lord’s lids drooped. he had seen sir francis through the lattice of the summer-house. his hitherto meaningless humour lacked now no motive to spur it. he stepped quickly to miss boyle’s side.

“i have seen susannah,” he said.

she moved out of the lamplight.

“then you know that—we—cannot speak together,” she said under her breath and faintly.

“why?” asked my lord on a quick note of recklessness.

“ah, you know!” she faltered. “and we shall be seen.”

she walked on, but towards the water, not the supper-table. he came behind her, treading lightly. her long gauzy scarf floated about her like a mist. the silver borders of it gleamed across her bosom and over her powdered curls.

“that malice in the paper has frightened you,” said my lord. “i think there is no need to notice it.”

she paused in her slow walk and stood, an elusive shape in white, against the dark laurels.

“this is an extraordinary thing for you to say,” she breathed.

“ah, you blame me, and i have no excuses to offer!”

“mine was the fault,” she spoke so low that he must bend closer to hear. “i should never have written to you.”

her skirt had fluttered back on a bough; he stooped and loosened it.

“walk along here with me, selina.”

“let me return. you should not have spoken to me. i am unnerved to-night.”

he laughed.

“i should like to take you on the lake—away from these people. could we find a boat?”

“my lord, i entreat you, let me return. i—i shall not be able to hold my head up!” she answered desperately and weakly.

“do i prevent your return?” he smiled. “i am not detaining you, selina.”

“oh, in many ways! you agitate me beyond bearing. if sir francis——”

“well?” he laughed into her trembling sentences. “are you afraid of sir francis?”

she gave him a bewildered piteous look.

“afraid! yes, i am afraid of them all. what do you want to say to me? ah, there is nothing to be said!”

“everything, i think,” he answered. “give me a chance to speak.”

the dim confusing and shifting light of moon and lamp, falling brokenly through the stirring branches, only half revealed to her his face, turned towards her, pale between the pomaded curls.

“i cannot hear you, my lord.”

he caught her little wrist lightly.

“you are not going to betroth yourself to sir francis?”

“i have assured you of that,” she panted. “this is cruelty, my lord. ah, release my hand!”

he did not. the lace at his cuff trembled on her bare arm. they stood very close together, she straining her head away from him so that her hair and scarf mingled floated out on the breeze and touched his breast.

“this is impossible,” murmured miss boyle. “i must return.” suddenly she faced him. “why are you doing this?”

he freed her hand.

“read my actions by your own heart, selina,” he smiled. “you care for me, do you not? i cannot expect it put into words, but at least look at me.”

“i think you must be heartless, or possessed, to-night, my lord.”

she made a quick step back among the laurels, for as she spoke sir francis was upon them. he had come swiftly and silently, it seemed, down the path from the pavilion, and was within a step of them before they saw him.

“miss boyle—madam!” he cried, and looked from one to another in a breathless manner.

the earl bowed with a slight air of mockery. he seemed pleased, elated, by this sudden incursion.

“good even, sir francis!” he said.

miss boyle gathered herself together and took a step towards her cousin.

“let us go back to the house, sir,” she said.

sir francis flushed and hesitated. my lord observed him with narrowed eyes.

“we are engaged for this dance,” said miss boyle desperately. “i think it hath begun.” she laid her hand tremblingly on her cousin’s arm, and he was turning in answer to the appeal that she breathed forth to her very finger-tips, when rose lyndwood spoke.

“i vow you are very fickle, miss boyle.” his soft voice was pointedly reckless. “had you not promised me your company upon the lake?”

there followed the pause of a second, while my lord flung his domino over his shoulder and fingered the rose under his chin.

“is this true?” asked sir francis.

the earl’s eyes seemed to laugh.

“call it a lie. will it not equally serve?”

“my lord!” cried miss boyle.

“what is your meaning, lord lyndwood?” inquired sir francis softly.

“not the same as you apprehended it last night,” answered rose lyndwood, and laughed outright. “and, for the rest, is it ever worth while to ask my meaning?”

“come away!” breathed miss boyle.

“no.” her cousin turned from her. “his lordship hath somewhat to answer to me.”

“you think so,” said my lord. “well, you know where to find me, sir francis.”

miss boyle broke into an agony of whispered words.

“what has happened? take me away—for my sake, francis—my lord!”

the earl disregarded the entreaty of voice and eyes. he did not look at her, but at the man she stood beside.

“yesterday you were too slow, as to-night you go too fast,” cried sir francis, “and either humour is one not to be borne. so you shall hear from me, my lord.”

“no!” exclaimed miss boyle, striking her hand on her bosom. “take that back, sir. you know not what you say—what you do!” she clasped his hand, but the passion of her imploring eyes was all for rose lyndwood. “grant me the right to ask this of you. take that back.”

but her cousin answered hotly.

“it is you who do not know what you ask, madam. now let me take you to the ballroom.”

she dropped his hand.

“my lord, to you—i speak to you. will you allow this to happen?”

no change crossed my lord’s pale smiling face.

“sir francis must act as he thinks fit, madam,” he answered, and again touched the rose at his cravat. “need it distress you?”

francis boyle spoke on a passionate exclamation.

“’tis your presence distresses this lady, lord lyndwood. with the knowledge you have ’twas an insult that you sought to speak to her to-night, and that you stay is, my lord, insolence!”

the earl turned at this slightly, with an air of utterly dismissing and despising the speaker. his eyes were wildly bright and daring in a face composed and colourless. he spoke directly to miss boyle, with no attempt to disguise the meaning in his voice.

“will you speak for yourself, madam? does not the gentleman pretend to overmuch? may not i see you back to the house?”

sir francis drew his breath sharply, but remained proudly waiting for her.

she shivered and gave a little groan. a sudden laugh sprang into my lord’s beautiful eyes. he lifted the pale rose to his lips and threw back his head. miss boyle, all silver and white, took a step forward into the moonlight where it fell clear of the laurels.

“sir francis is my escort, sir,” she answered, looking straightly at my lord. “my duty to the countess, and adieu!” she curtsied, and sir francis made a little eager motion towards her. she laid her hand lightly on his arm.

the earl smiled at both of them.

“au revoir, shall we not say?” he turned away at once.

miss boyle stood with downcast eyes. she was so pale and quiet that sir francis was alarmed.

“i would i had come sooner.”

she looked round now—not at him, but at the pink domino disappearing down the shadowed walk.

“you are not going to challenge him?” she asked under her breath.

“i am sorry that it should have happened in your presence, grieved that it troubles you.”

she glanced at him in an absent way.

“what are you saying? give me a moment.”

“will you not return to the house?”

“no, i could not; nor dance to-night.” her fingers quivered on his sleeve. “besides, i must speak to you.”

he flushed quickly.

“about this affair?”

“give me a moment,” repeated miss boyle faintly.

they walked on, neither saying a word, he waiting for her and she absorbed in some emotion that held her silent. they reached a little seat by the water’s edge, and there she, leaving the support of his arm, sank down.

“oh, heaven!” she cried suddenly. “you are not going to challenge him?”

“what else?” he answered reluctantly. “but there is no need to talk of it.”

“it cannot—it must not happen!” said miss boyle desperately.

he glanced at her half doubtingly. the moonlight was elusive, treacherous; he could not guess what emotion it was that shook her.

“you laughed at the paragraph in the paper,” she continued, “and now——”

he ended her sentence.

“i cannot laugh at his manner of taking it; that he should speak to you, in that tone—that he should dare. we could not take from any man, least of all from lord lyndwood.”

“you have neither right nor excuse to interfere,” she answered. “i do not ask you to champion me, francis.”

“the right of a member of your family, madam, the head of your family; your father would approve what i do.”

“but you swore you wished to please me,” she cried feverishly. “well, please me this way.”

“it is a way in which no man should please a lady,” replied sir francis hotly. “do not put me to the pain of a refusal, madam. my challenge goes to lord lyndwood.”

“ah, that is what it comes to! it is not for me you care, but for your pride.”

“you will not be involved,” he said quickly. “can we not find a pretext for a quarrel?”

miss boyle rose, and the silver borders of her scarf rippled from her bosom to her feet.

“i am going to put myself at your mercy,” she said in a quiet voice. “you must not take this quarrel upon you. you must understand.”

he stood silent, staring at her oval face faintly seen between the folds of gauze.

“it is true, francis—that statement in the paper. my lord wrote to me, and i to him, as it said. it was, i think, the countess who found my letter and composed that paragraph.” her voice suddenly failed into a little sob.

“is this a wile to put me off?” demanded sir francis passionately.

“on my honour, it is true,” she answered. “it was always so between us, before his marriage, since we first met, and because of that i could not give you or any my hand.”

“this to my face!” exclaimed her cousin softly.

miss boyle replied proudly.

“i do you some honour. you have no claim on me. i might have put you off with lies, it is not over easy to tell the truth—his truth to you.”

“would you had lied sooner than i had heard it!” he answered bitterly. “it is not, madam, pleasant news.”

“you had to know. there must be no duel.”

this flicked him into a passion as if it had been an insult or a blow.

“you cannot imagine, madam, that what you have told me can make any difference. by heaven, you do not dare to ask me to ignore this!”

“after what i have confessed!” she cried, bewildered, piteous.

sir francis gave a short laugh.

“you have confessed too much, madam. it has not increased my respect for lord lyndwood, nor altered my intentions.”

she clasped her hands in an agony.

“i implore you, if you would not kill me, do not send that challenge.”

“you are very tender of his safety,” replied sir francis, moving back from her. “but take courage, madam; men like my lord are usually skilled with sword and pistol.”

miss boyle shrank down on to the seat.

“you insult me, francis—francis!”

“what of me? do you think me wood or stone? and what i say, i mean. lord lyndwood is a successful duellist.”

“can you think i want you hurt,” she cried frantically, “and by him?”

“you would not, i think, grieve overmuch, madam,” he answered bitterly. “i have been sorry fool enough to think i might one day win your regard, and you tell me this! it is very well. i will not distress you with my presence.”

but she sprang up and crossed his path as he was leaving her.

“for god’s sake, francis, listen to me. do not refuse to listen to me now. i have tried to be honest with you from the first.” she suddenly slipped to her knees on the path and took his sword hand. “have some pity, francis,” and she broke into wild tears.

he gave a great exclamation to see her at his feet, and raised her sharply.

“this should be to my lord lyndwood,” he said wildly, “but you can have no cause to kneel to me.”

she crouched away from him on the seat where he placed her and buried her face in her hands.

“you do not understand,” she gasped. “i would not have believed this.”

“nor i, madam,” he answered. “that a man like my lord should be your choice!”

she raised her distorted face and struggled with sobs, pressing her hands to her eyes. sir francis watched her for a moment.

“shall i see you back to the house?” he asked in a restrained voice.

miss boyle shuddered into a sudden calm.

“i would thank you to leave me.”

“good-night, then, madam.”

she looked at him with utter reproach and despair.

“god forgive you, francis!”

he left her without a word or a backward look towards the seat where she sat dumbly weeping.