because of the one I gave you?"

"Yes."

"What did you do with that?"

"Burned it."

"Oh! but why?"

"Because you are a witch--and witches must be burned with all their
flowers."

"Are you going to burn me?"

He put his hand on her cool arm.

"Feel! The flames are lighted."

"You may! I don't care!"

She took his hand and laid her cheek against it; yet, to the music, which
had begun again, the tip of her shoe was already beating time. And he
said:

"You ought to be dancing, child."

"Oh, no! Only it's a pity you don't want to."

"Yes! Do you understand that it must all be secret--underground?"

She covered his lips with the fan, and said: "You're not to think; you're
not to think--never! When can I come?"

"I must find the best way. Not to-morrow. Nobody must know, Nell--for
your sake--for hers--nobody!"

She nodded, and repeated with a soft, mysterious wisdom: "Nobody." And
then, aloud: "Here's Oliver! It was awfully good of you to come.
Good-night!"

And as, on Oliver's arm, she left their little refuge, she looked back.

He lingered--to watch her through this one dance. How they made all the
other couples sink into insignificance, with that something in them both
that was better than mere good looks--that something not outre or
eccentric, but poignant, wayward. They went well together, those two
Dromores--his dark head and her fair head; his clear, brown, daring eyes,
and her grey, languorous, mesmeric eyes. Ah! Master Oliver was happy
now, with her so close to him! It was not jealousy that Lennan felt.
Not quite--one did not feel jealous of the young; something very
deep--pride, sense of proportion, who knew what--prevented that. She,
too, looked happy, as if her soul were dancing, vibrating with the music
and the scent of the flowers. He waited for her to come round once more,
to get for a last time that flying glance turned back; then found his
coat and hat and went.

XIII

Outside, he walked a few steps, then stood looking back at the windows of
the hall through some trees, the shadows of whose trunks, in the light of
a street lamp, were spilled out along the ground like the splines of a
fan. A church clock struck eleven. For hours yet she would be there,
going round and round in the arms of Youth! Try as he might he could
never recapture for himself the look that Oliver's face had worn--the
look that was the symbol of so much more than he himself could give her.
Wh