, and she
recognised them and replied with volleys of rosebuds--was in the act of
hurling her last blossom--caught sight of Neville where he stood with
Mazie on a chair behind him, her arms resting on his shoulders. And the
last rose dropped from her hand.

Querida turned, too, inquiringly; recognised Neville; and for a second
his olive cheeks reddened; then with a gay laugh he passed his arm
around Valerie and, coolly facing the bombardment of confetti and
flowers, swung her from the table to the floor.

A furious little battle of flowers began at his own table, but Neville
was already lost in the throng, making his way toward the door, pelted,
shouldered, blocked, tormented--but, indifferent, unresponsive, forcing
his path to the outer air.

Once or twice voices called his name, but he scarcely heard them. Then a
hand caught at his; and a breathless voice whispered:

"Are you going?"

"Yes," he said, dully.

"Why?"

"I've had enough--of the New Year."

Breathing fast, the colour in her face coming and going, she stood,
vivid lips parted, regarding him. Then, in a low voice:

"I didn't know you were to be here, Louis."

"Nor I. It was an accident."

"Who was the--girl--"

"What girl?"

"She stood behind you with her hands on your shoulders."

"How the devil do I know," he said, savagely--"her name's
Mazie--something--or--other."

"Did you bring her?"

"Yes. Did Querida bring _you_?" he asked, insolently.

[Illustration: "And the last rose dropped from her hand."]

She looked at him in a confused, bewildered way--laid her hand on his
sleeve with an impulse as though he had been about to strike her.

He no longer knew what he was doing in the sudden surge of unreasoning
anger that possessed him; he shook her hand from his sleeve and turned.

And the next moment, on the stairs, she was beside him again, slender,
pale, close to his shoulder, descending the great staircase beside him,
one white-gloved hand resting lightly within his arm.

Neither spoke. At the cloak-room she turned and looked at him--stood a
moment slowly tearing the orchids from her breast and dropping the
crushed petals underfoot.

A maid brought her fur coat--his gift; a page brought his own coat and
hat.

"Will you call a cab?"

He turned and spoke to the porter. Then they waited, side by side, in
silence.

When the taxicab arrived he turned to give the porter her address, but
she had forestalled him. And he entered th