“How enchanting!” cried Marcella, as they emerged on the terrace, and river, shore, and sky opened upon them in all the thousand-tinted light and shade of a still and perfect evening.  “Oh, how hot we were ­and how badly you treat us in those dens!”

Those confident eyes of Wharton’s shone as they glanced at her.

She wore a pretty white dress of some cotton stuff ­it seemed to him he remembered it of old ­and on the waving masses of hair lay a little bunch of black lace that called itself a bonnet, with black strings tied demurely under the chin.  The abundance of character and dignity in the beauty which yet to-night was so young and glowing ­the rich arresting note of the voice ­the inimitable carriage of the head ­Wharton realised them all at the moment with peculiar vividness, because he felt them in some sort as additions to his own personal wealth.  To-night she was in his power, his possession.

The terrace was full of people, and alive with a Babel of talk.  Yet, as he carried his companions forward in search of Mrs. Lane, he saw that Marcella was instantly marked.  Every one who passed them, or made way for them, looked and looked again.

The girl, absorbed in her pleasant or agitating impressions, knew nothing of her own effect.  She was drinking in the sunset light ­the poetic mystery of the river ­the lovely line of the bridge ­the associations of the place where she stood, of this great building overshadowing her.  Every now and then she started in a kind of terror lest some figure in the dusk should be Aldous Raeburn; then when a stranger showed himself she gave herself up again to her young pleasure in the crowd and the spectacle.  But Wharton knew that she was observed; Wharton caught the whisper that followed her.  His vanity, already so well-fed this evening, took the attention given to her as so much fresh homage to itself; and she had more and more glamour for him in the reflected light of this publicity, this common judgment.

“Ah, here are the Lanes!” he said, detecting at last a short lady in black amid a group of men.

Marcella and Edith were introduced.  Then Edith found a friend in a young London member who was to be one of the party, and strolled off with him till dinner should be announced.

“I will just take Miss Boyce to the end of the terrace,” said Wharton to Mr. Lane; “we shan’t get anything to eat yet awhile.  What a crowd!  The Alresfords not come yet, I see.”

Lane shrugged his shoulders as he looked round.

“Raeburn has a party to-night.  And there are at least three or four others besides ourselves.  I should think food and service will be equally scarce!”

Wharton glanced quickly at Marcella.  But she was talking to Mrs. Lane, and had heard nothing.

“Let me just show you the terrace,” he said to her.  “No chance of dinner for another twenty minutes.”

They strolled away together.  As they moved along, a number of men waylaid the speaker of the night with talk and congratulations ­glancing the while at the lady on his left.  But presently they were away from the crowd which hung about the main entrance to the terrace, and had reached the comparatively quiet western end, where were only a few pairs and groups walking up and down.

“Shall I see Mr. Bennett?” she asked him eagerly, as they paused by the parapet, looking down upon the grey-brown water swishing under the fast incoming tide.  “I want to.”

“I asked him to dine, but he wouldn’t.  He has gone to a prayer-meeting ­at least I guess so.  There is a famous American evangelist speaking in Westminster to-night ­I am as certain as I ever am of anything that Bennett is there ­dining on Moody and Sankey.  Men are a medley, don’t you think? ­So you liked his speech?”

“How coolly you ask!” she said, laughing.  “Did you?”

He was silent a moment, his smiling gaze fixed on the water.  Then he turned to her.

“How much gratitude do you think I owe him?”

“As much as you can pay,” she said with emphasis.  “I never heard anything more complete, more generous.”

“So you were carried away?”

She looked at him with a curious, sudden gravity ­a touch of defiance.

“No! ­neither by him, nor by you.  I don’t believe in your Bill ­and I am sure you will never carry it!”

Wharton lifted his eyebrows.

“Perhaps you’ll tell me where you are,” he said, “that I may know how to talk?  When we last discussed these things at Mellor, I think ­you were a Socialist?”

“What does it matter what I was last year?” she asked him gaily, yet with a final inflection of the voice which was not gay; “I was a baby! Now perhaps I have earned a few poor, little opinions ­but they are a ragged bundle ­and I have never any time to sort them.”

“Have you left the Venturists?”

“No! ­but I am full of perplexities; and the Cravens, I see, will soon be for turning me out.  You understand ­I know some working folk now!”

“So you did last year.”

“No!” ­she insisted, shaking her head ­“that was all different.  But now I am in their world ­I live with them ­and they talk to me.  One evening in the week I am ‘at home’ for all the people I know in our Buildings ­men and women.  Mrs. Hurd ­you know who I mean?” ­her brow contracted a moment ­“she comes with her sewing to keep me company; so does Edith Craven; and sometimes the little room is packed.  The men smoke ­when we can have the windows open! ­and I believe I shall soon smoke too ­it makes them talk better.  We get all sorts ­Socialists, Conservatives, Radicals ­”

“ ­And you don’t think much of the Socialists?”

“Well! they are the interesting, dreamy fellows,” she said, laughing, “who don’t save, and muddle their lives.  And as for argument, the Socialist workman doesn’t care twopence for facts ­that don’t suit him.  It’s superb the way he treats them!”

“I should like to know who does care!” said Wharton, with a shrug.  Then he turned with his back to the parapet, the better to command her.  He had taken off his hat for coolness, and the wind played with the crisp curls of hair.  “But tell me” ­he went on ­“who has been tampering with you?  Is it Hallin?  You told me you saw him often.”

“Perhaps.  But what if it’s everything? ­living? ­saving your presence!  A year ago at any rate the world was all black ­or white ­to me.  Now I lie awake at night, puzzling my head about the shades between ­which makes the difference.  A compulsory Eight Hours’ Day for all men in all trades!” Her note of scorn startled him.  “You know you won’t get it!  And all the other big exasperating things you talk about ­public organisation of labour, and the rest ­you won’t get them till all the world is a New Jerusalem ­and when the world is a New Jerusalem nobody will want them!”

Wharton made her an ironical bow.

“Nicely said! ­though we have heard it before.  Upon my word, you have marched! ­or Edward Hallin has carried you.  So now you think the poor are as well off as possible, in the best of all possible worlds ­is that the result of your nursing?  You agree with Denny, in fact? the man who got up after me?”

His tone annoyed her.  Then suddenly the name suggested to her a recollection that brought a frown.

“That was the man, then, you attacked in the Clarion this morning!”

“Ah! you read me!” said Wharton, with sudden pleasure.  “Yes ­that opened the campaign.  As you know, of course, Craven has gone down, and the strike begins next week.  Soon we shall bring two batteries to bear, he letting fly as correspondent, and I from the office.  I enjoyed writing that article.”

“So I should think,” she said drily; “all I know is, it made one reader passionately certain that there was another side to the matter!  There may not be.  I dare say there isn’t; but on me at least that was the effect.  Why is it” ­she broke out with vehemence ­“that not a single Labour paper is ever capable of the simplest justice to an opponent?”

“You think any other sort of paper is any better?” he asked her scornfully.

“I dare say not.  But that doesn’t matter to me! it is we who talk of justice, of respect, and sympathy from man to man, and then we go and blacken the men who don’t agree with us ­whole classes, that is to say, of our fellow-countrymen, not in the old honest slashing style, Tartuffes that we are! ­but with all the delicate methods of a new art of slander, pursued almost for its own sake.  We know so much better ­always ­than our opponents, we hardly condescend even to be angry.  One is only ’sorry’ ­’obliged to punish’ ­like the priggish governess of one’s childhood!”

In spite of himself, Wharton flushed.

“My best thanks!” he said.  “Anything more?  I prefer to take my drubbing all at once.”

She looked at him steadily.

“Why did you write, or allow that article on the West Brookshire landlords two days ago?”

Wharton started.

“Well! wasn’t it true?”

“No!” she said with a curling lip; “and I think you know it wasn’t true.”

“What! as to the Raeburns?  Upon my word, I should have imagined,” he said slowly, “that it represented your views at one time with tolerable accuracy.”

Her nerve suddenly deserted her.  She bent over the parapet, and, taking up a tiny stone that lay near, she threw it unsteadily into the river.  He saw the hand shake.

“Look here,” he said, turning round so that he too leant over the river, his arms on the parapet, his voice close to her ear.  “Are you always going to quarrel with me like this?  Don’t you know that there is no one in the world I would sooner please if I could?”

She did not speak.

“In the first place,” he said, laughing, “as to my speech, do you suppose that I believe in that Bill which I described just now?”

“I don’t know,” she said indignantly, once more playing with the stones on the wall.  “It sounded like it.”

“That is my gift ­my little carillon, as Renan would say.  But do you imagine I want you or any one else to tell me that we shan’t get such a Bill for generations?  Of course we shan’t!”

“Then why do you make farcical speeches, bamboozling your friends and misleading the House of Commons?”

He saw the old storm-signs with glee ­the lightning in the eye, the rose on the cheek.  She was never so beautiful as when she was angry.

“Because, my dear lady ­we must generate our force.  Steam must be got up ­I am engaged in doing it.  We shan’t get a compulsory eight hours’ day for all trades ­but in the course of the agitation for that precious illusion, and by the help of a great deal of beating of tom-toms, and gathering of clans, we shall get a great many other things by the way that we do want.  Hearten your friends, and frighten your enemies ­there is no other way of scoring in politics ­and the particular score doesn’t matter.  Now don’t look at me as if you would like to impeach me! ­or I shall turn the tables. I am still fighting for my illusions in my own way ­you, it seems, have given up yours!”

But for once he had underrated her sense of humour.  She broke into a low merry laugh which a little disconcerted him.

“You mock me?” he said quickly ­“think me insincere, unscrupulous? ­Well, I dare say!  But you have no right to mock me.  Last year, again and again, you promised me guerdon.  Now it has come to paying ­and I claim!”

His low distinct voice in her ear had a magnetising effect upon her.  She slowly turned her face to him, overcome by ­yet fighting against ­memory.  If she had seen in him the smallest sign of reference to that scene she hated to think of, he would have probably lost this hold upon her on the spot.  But his tact was perfect.  She saw nothing but a look of dignity and friendship, which brought upon her with a rush all those tragic things they had shared and fought through, purifying things of pity and fear, which had so often seemed to her the atonement for, the washing away of that old baseness.

He saw her face tremble a little.  Then she said proudly ­

“I promised to be grateful.  So I am.”

“No, no!” he said, still in the same low tone.  “You promised me a friend.  Where is she?”

She made no answer.  Her hands were hanging loosely over the water, and her eyes were fixed on the haze opposite, whence emerged the blocks of the great hospital and the twinkling points of innumerable lamps.  But his gaze compelled her at last, and she turned back to him.  He saw an expression half hostile, half moved, and pressed on before she could speak.

“Why do you bury yourself in that nursing life?” he said drily.  “It is not the life for you; it does not fit you in the least.”

“You test your friends!” she cried, her cheek flaming again at the provocative change of voice.  “What possible right have you to that remark?”

“I know you, and I know the causes you want to serve.  You can’t serve them where you are.  Nursing is not for you; you are wanted among your own class ­among your equals ­among the people who are changing and shaping England.  It is absurd.  You are masquerading.”

She gave him a little sarcastic nod.

“Thank you.  I am doing a little honest work for the first time in my life.”

He laughed.  It was impossible to tell whether he was serious or posing.

“You are just what you were in one respect ­terribly in the right!  Be a little humble to-night for a change.  Come, condescend to the classes!  Do you see Mr. Lane calling us?”

And, in fact, Mr. Lane, with his arm in the air, was eagerly beckoning to them from the distance.

“Do you know Lady Selina Farrell?” he asked her, as they walked quickly back to the dispersing crowd.

“No; who is she?”

Wharton laughed.

“Providence should contrive to let Lady Selina overhear that question once a week ­in your tone!  Well, she is a personage ­Lord Alresford’s daughter ­unmarried, rich, has a salon, or thinks she has ­manipulates a great many people’s fortunes and lives, or thinks she does, which, after all, is what matters ­to Lady Selina.  She wants to know you, badly.  Do you think you can be kind to her?  There she is ­you will let me introduce you?  She dines with us.”

In another moment Marcella had been introduced to a tall, fair lady in a very fashionable black and pink bonnet, who held out a gracious hand.

“I have heard so much of you!” said Lady Selina, as they walked along the passage to the dining-room together.  “It must be so wonderful, your nursing!”

Marcella laughed rather restively.

“No, I don’t think it is,” she said; “there are so many of us.”

“Oh, but the things you do ­Mr. Wharton told me ­so interesting!”

Marcella said nothing, and as to her looks the passage was dark.  Lady Selina thought her a very handsome but very gauche young woman.  Still, gauche or no, she had thrown over Aldous Raeburn and thirty thousand a year; an act which, as Lady Selina admitted, put you out of the common run.

“Do you know most of the people dining?” she enquired in her blandest voice.  “But no doubt you do.  You are a great friend of Mr. Wharton’s, I think?”

“He stayed at our house last year,” said Marcella, abruptly.  “No, I don’t know anybody.”

“Then shall I tell you?  It makes it more interesting, doesn’t it?  It ought to be a pleasant little party.”

And the great lady lightly ran over the names.  It seemed to Marcella that most of them were very “smart” or very important.  Some of the smart names were vaguely known to her from Miss Raeburn’s talk of last year; and, besides, there were a couple of Tory Cabinet ministers and two or three prominent members.  It was all rather surprising.

At dinner she found herself between one of the Cabinet ministers and the young and good-looking private secretary of the other.  Both men were agreeable, and very willing, besides, to take trouble with this unknown beauty.  The minister, who knew the Raeburns very well, was discussing with himself all the time whether this was indeed the Miss Boyce of that story.  His suspicion and curiosity were at any rate sufficiently strong to make him give himself much pains to draw her out.

Her own conversation, however, was much distracted by the attention she could not help giving to her host and his surroundings.  Wharton had Lady Selina on his right, and the young and distinguished wife of Marcella’s minister on his left.  At the other end of the table sat Mrs. Lane, doing her duty spasmodically to Lord Alresford, who still, in a blind old age, gave himself all the airs of the current statesman and possible premier.  But the talk, on the whole, was general ­a gay and careless give-and-take of parliamentary, social, and racing gossip, the ball flying from one accustomed hand to another.

And Marcella could not get over the astonishment of Wharton’s part in it.  She shut her eyes sometimes for an instant and tried to see him as her girl’s fancy had seen him at Mellor ­the solitary, eccentric figure pursued by the hatreds of a renounced Patricianate ­bringing the enmity of his own order as a pledge and offering to the Plebs he asked to lead.  Where even was the speaker of an hour ago?  Chat of Ascot and of Newmarket; discussion with Lady Selina or with his left-hand neighbour of country-house “sets,” with a patter of names which sounded in her scornful ear like a paragraph from the World; above all, a general air of easy comradeship, which no one at this table, at any rate, seemed inclined to dispute, with every exclusiveness and every amusement of the “idle rich,” whereof ­in the popular idea ­he was held to be one of the very particular foes! ­

No doubt, as the dinner moved on, this first impression changed somewhat.  She began to distinguish notes that had at first been lost upon her.  She caught the mocking, ambiguous tone under which she herself had so often fumed; she watched the occasional recoil of the women about him, as though they had been playing with some soft-pawed animal, and had been suddenly startled by the gleam of its claws.  These things puzzled, partly propitiated her.  But on the whole she was restless and hostile.  How was it possible ­from such personal temporising ­such a frittering of the forces and sympathies ­to win the single-mindedness and the power without which no great career is built?  She wanted to talk with him ­reproach him!

“Well ­I must go ­worse luck,” said Wharton at last, laying down his napkin and rising.  “Lane, will you take charge?  I will join you outside later.”

“If he ever finds us!” said her neighbour to Marcella.  “I never saw the place so crowded.  It is odd how people enjoy these scrambling meals in these very ugly rooms.”

Marcella, smiling, looked down with him over the bare coffee-tavern place, in which their party occupied a sort of high table across the end, while two other small gatherings were accommodated in the space below.

“Are there any other rooms than this?” she asked idly.

“One more,” said a young man across the table, who had been introduced to her in the dusk outside, and had not yet succeeded in getting her to look at him, as he desired.  “But there is another big party there to-night ­Raeburn ­you know,” he went on innocently, addressing the minister; “he has got the Winterbournes and the Macdonalds ­quite a gathering ­rather an unusual thing for him.”

The minister glanced quickly at his companion.  But she had turned to answer a question from Lady Selina, and thenceforward, till the party rose, she gave him little opportunity of observing her.

As the outward-moving stream of guests was once more in the corridor leading to the terrace, Marcella hurriedly made her way to Mrs. Lane.

“I think,” she said ­“I am afraid ­we ought to be going ­my friend and I. Perhaps Mr. Lane ­perhaps he would just show us the way out; we can easily find a cab.”

There was an imploring, urgent look in her face which struck Mrs. Lane.  But Mr. Lane’s loud friendly voice broke in from behind.

“My dear Miss Boyce! ­we can’t possibly allow it ­no! no ­just half an hour ­while they bring us our coffee ­to do your homage, you know, to the terrace ­and the river ­and the moon! ­And then ­if you don’t want to go back to the House for the division, we will see you safely into your cab.  Look at the moon! ­and the tide” ­they had come to the wide door opening on the terrace ­“aren’t they doing their very best for you?”

Marcella looked behind her in despair. Where was Edith?  Far in the rear! ­and fully occupied apparently with two or three pleasant companions.  She could not help herself.  She was carried on, with Mr. Lane chatting beside her ­though the sight of the shining terrace, with its moonlit crowd of figures, breathed into her a terror and pain she could hardly control.

“Come and look at the water,” she said to Mr. Lane; “I would rather not walk up and down if you don’t mind.”

He thought she was tired, and politely led her through the sitting or promenading groups till once more she was leaning over the parapet, now trying to talk, now to absorb herself in the magic of bridge, river, and sky, but in reality listening all the time with a shrinking heart for the voices and the footfalls that she dreaded.  Lady Winterbourne, above all!  How unlucky!  It was only that morning that she had received a forwarded letter from that old friend, asking urgently for news and her address.

“Well, how did you like the speech to-night ­the speech?” said Mr. Lane, a genial Gladstonian member, more heavily weighted with estates than with ideas.  “It was splendid, wasn’t it? ­in the way of speaking.  Speeches like that are a safety-valve ­that’s my view of it.  Have ’em out ­all these ideas ­get ’em discussed!” ­with a good-humoured shake of the head for emphasis.  “Does nobody any harm and may do good.  I can tell you, Miss Boyce, the House of Commons is a capital place for taming these clever young men! ­you must give them their head ­and they make excellent fellows after a bit.  Why ­who’s this? ­My dear Lady Winterbourne! ­this is a sight for sair een!”

And the portly member with great effusion grasped the hand of a stately lady in black, whose abundant white hair caught the moonlight.

“Marcella!” cried a woman’s voice.

Yes ­there he was! ­close behind Lady Winterbourne.  In the soft darkness he and his party had run upon the two persons talking over the wall without an idea ­a suspicion.

She hurriedly withdrew herself from Lady Winterbourne, hesitated a second, then held out her hand to him.  The light was behind him.  She could not see his face in the darkness; but she was suddenly and strangely conscious of the whole scene ­of the great dark building with its lines of fairy-lit gothic windows ­the blue gulf of the river crossed by lines of wavering light ­the swift passage of a steamer with its illuminated saloon and crowded deck ­of the wonderful mixture of moonlight and sunset in the air and sky ­of this dark figure in front of her.

Their hands touched.  Was there a murmured word from him?  She did not know; she was too agitated, too unhappy to hear it if there was.  She threw herself upon Lady Winterbourne, in whom she divined at once a tremor almost equal to her own.

“Oh! do come with me ­come away! ­I want to talk to you!” she said incoherently under her breath, drawing Lady Winterbourne with a strong hand.

Lady Winterbourne yielded, bewildered, and they moved along the terrace.

“Oh, my dear, my dear!” cried the elder lady ­“to think of finding you here!  How astonishing ­how ­how dreadful!  No! ­I don’t mean that.  Of course you and he must meet ­but it was only yesterday he told me he had never seen you again ­since ­and it gave me a turn.  I was very foolish just now.  There now ­stay here a moment ­and tell me about yourself.”

And again they paused by the river, the girl glancing nervously behind her as though she were in a company of ghosts.  Lady Winterbourne recovered herself, and Marcella, looking at her, saw the old tragic severity of feature and mien blurred with the same softness, the same delicate tremor.  Marcella clung to her with almost a daughter’s feeling.  She took up the white wrinkled hand as it lay on the parapet, and kissed it in the dark so that no one saw.

“I am glad to see you again,” she said passionately, “so glad!”

Lady Winterbourne was surprised and moved.

“But you have never written all these months, you unkind child!  And I have heard so little of you ­your mother never seemed to know.  When will you come and see me ­or shall I come to you?  I can’t stay now, for we were just going; my daughter, Ermyntrude Welwyn, has to take some one to a ball.  How strange” ­she broke off ­“how very strange that you and he should have met to-night!  He goes off to Italy to-morrow, you know, with Lord Maxwell.”

“Yes, I had heard,” said Marcella, more steadily.  “Will you come to tea with me next week? ­Oh, I will write. ­And we must go too ­where can my friend be?”

She looked round in dismay, and up and down the terrace for Edith.

“I will take you back to the Lanes, anyway,” said Lady Winterbourne; “or shall we look after you?”

“No! no!  Take me back to the Lanes.”

“Mamma, are you coming?” said a voice like a softened version of Lady Winterbourne’s.  Then something small and thin ran forward, and a girl’s voice said piteously: 

“Dear Lady Winterbourne, my frock and my hair take so long to do! I shall be cross with my maid, and look like a fiend.  Ermyntrude will be sorry she ever knew me. Do come!”

“Don’t cry, Betty.  I certainly shan’t take you if you do!” said Lady Ermyntrude, laughing.  “Mamma, is this Miss Boyce ­your Miss Boyce?”

She and Marcella shook hands, and they talked a little, Lady Ermyntrude under cover of the darkness looking hard and curiously at the tall stranger whom, as it happened, she had never seen before.  Marcella had little notion of what she was saying.  She was far more conscious of the girlish form hanging on Lady Winterbourne’s arm than she was of her own words, of “Betty’s” beautiful soft eyes ­also shyly and gravely fixed upon herself ­under that marvellous cloud of fair hair; the long, pointed chin; the whimsical little face.

“Well, none of you are any good!” said Betty at last, in a tragic voice.  “I shall have to walk home my own poor little self, and ’ask a p’leeceman.’  Mr. Raeburn!”

He disengaged himself from a group behind and came ­with no alacrity.  Betty ran up to him.

“Mr. Raeburn!  Ermyntrude and Lady Winterbourne are going to sleep here, if you don’t mind making arrangements.  But I want a hansom.”

At that very moment Marcella caught sight of Edith strolling along towards her with a couple of members, and chatting as though the world had never rolled more evenly.

“Oh! there she is ­there is my friend!” cried Marcella to Lady Winterbourne.  “Good-night ­good-night!”

She was hurrying off when she saw Aldous Raeburn was standing alone a moment.  The exasperated Betty had made a dart from his side to “collect” another straying member of the party.

An impulse she could not master scattered her wretched discomfort ­even her chafing sense of being the observed of many eyes.  She walked up to him.

“Will you tell me about Lord Maxwell?” she said in a tremulous hurry.  “I am so sorry he is ill ­I hadn’t heard ­I ­”

She dared not look up.  Was that his voice answering?

“Thank you.  We have been very anxious about him; but the doctors to-day give a rather better report.  We take him abroad to-morrow.”

“Marcella! at last!” cried Edith Craven, catching hold of her friend; “you lost me?  Oh, nonsense; it was all the other way.  But look, there is Mr. Wharton coming out.  I must go ­come and say good-night ­everybody is departing.”

Aldous Raeburn lifted his hat.  Marcella felt a sudden rush of humiliation ­pain ­sore resentment.  That cold, strange tone ­those unwilling words! ­She had gone up to him ­as undisciplined in her repentance as she had been in aggression ­full of a passionate yearning to make friends ­somehow to convey to him that she “was sorry,” in the old child’s phrase which her self-willed childhood had used so little.  There could be no misunderstanding possible!  He of all men knew best how irrevocable it all was.  But why, when life has brought reflection, and you realise at last that you have vitally hurt, perhaps maimed, another human being, should it not be possible to fling conventions aside, and go to that human being with the frank confession which by all the promises of ethics and religion ought to bring peace ­peace and a soothed conscience?

But she had been repulsed ­put aside, so she took it ­and by one of the kindest and most generous of men!  She moved along the terrace in a maze, seeing nothing, biting her lip to keep back the angry tears.  All that obscure need, that new stirring of moral life within her ­which had found issue in this little futile advance towards a man who had once loved her and could now, it seemed, only despise and dislike, her ­was beating and swelling stormlike within her.  She had taken being loved so easily, so much as a matter of course!  How was it that it hurt her now so much to have lost love, and power, and consideration?  She had never felt any passion for Aldous Raeburn ­had taken him lightly and shaken him off with a minimum of remorse.  Yet to-night a few cold words from him ­the proud manner of a moment ­had inflicted a smart upon her she could hardly bear.  They had made her feel herself so alone, unhappy, uncared for!

But, on the contrary, she must be happy! ­must be loved!  To this, and this only, had she been brought by the hard experience of this strenuous year.

“Oh, Mrs. Lane, be an angel!” exclaimed Wharton’s voice.  “Just one turn ­five minutes!  The division will be called directly, and then we will all thank our stars and go to bed!”

In another instant he was at Marcella’s side, bare-headed, radiant, reckless even, as he was wont to be in moments of excitement.  He had seen her speak to Raeburn as he came out on the terrace, but his mind was too full for any perception of other people’s situations ­even hers.  He was absorbed with himself, and with her, as she fitted his present need.  The smile of satisfied vanity, of stimulated ambition, was on his lips; and his good-humour inclined him more than ever to Marcella, and the pleasure of a woman’s company.  He passed with ease from triumph to homage; his talk now audacious, now confiding, offered her a deference, a flattery, to which, as he was fully conscious, the events of the evening had lent a new prestige.

She, too, in his eyes, had triumphed ­had made her mark.  His ears were full of the comments made upon her to-night by the little world on the terrace.  If it were not for money ­hateful money! ­what more brilliant wife could be desired for any rising man?

So the five minutes lengthened into ten, and by the time the division was called, and Wharton hurried off, Marcella, soothed, taken out of herself, rescued from the emptiness and forlornness of a tragic moment, had given him more conscious cause than she had ever given him yet to think her kind and fair.