Rubens, the
adorable Titian--ideal beauty looking down with art's eternal
tranquillity upon the whisk and whirl of actual life--here a calm
Madonna, contemplating, with deep unfathomable eyes, these brief
ephemera of a night--there Judith with a white muscular arm holding the
tyrant's head aloft above the dancers--yonder Philip of Spain frowning
on this Lenten festival.

Violet and Captain Winstanley waltzed in a stern silence. She was vexed
with herself for her loss of temper just now. In his breast there was a
deeper anger. "When would my day come?" he asked himself. "When shall I
be able to bow this proud head, to bend this stubborn will?" It must be
soon--he was tired of playing his submissive part--tired of holding his
cards hidden.

They held on to the end of the waltz--the last clash of the
sleigh-bells.

"Who's that girl in black and gold?" asked a Guardsman of Lady
Ellangowan; "those two are the best dancers in the room--it's a
thousand to nothing on them."

That final clash of the bells brought the Captain and his partner to
anchor at the end of the gallery, which opened through an archway into
a spacious palm-house with a lofty dome. In the middle of this archway,
looking at the dancers, stood a figure at sight of which Violet
Tempest's heart gave a great leap, and then stood still.

It was Roderick Vawdrey. He was standing alone, listlessly
contemplating the ball-room, with much less life and expression in his
face than there was in the pictured faces on the walls.

"That was a very nice waltz thanks," said Vixen, giving the captain a
little curtsey.

"Shall I take you back to Mrs. Tempest?"

Roderick had seen her by this time, and was coming towards her with a
singularly grave and distant countenance, she thought; not at all like
the Rorie of old times. But of course that was over and done with. She
must never call him Rorie any more, not even in her own thoughts. A
sharp sudden memory thrilled her, as they stood face to face in that
brilliant gallery--the memory of their last meeting in the darkened
room on the day of her father's funeral.

"How do you do?" said Roderick, with a gush of originality. "Your mamma
is here, I suppose."

"Haven't you seen her?"

"No; we've only just come."

"We," no doubt, meant the Dovedale party, of which Mr. Vawdrey was
henceforth a part.

"I did not know you were to be here," said Vixen, "or then that you
were in England."

"We only came home yesterday