ve Vera; others
more worthy of her, more equally mated with her youth and loveliness; and
he, he said to himself in his humility with regard to her, he had so
little to offer her--nothing but his love. He knew himself to be grave
and quiet; there was nothing about him to enchain her to him. He lacked
brilliancy in manner and conversation; he was dull; he was, perhaps,
even prosy. He knew it very well himself; but suppose Vera should find it
out, and find that she had made a mistake! The bare thought of it was
enough to make him shudder.

No; Mrs. Romer was a clever, well-intentioned little woman. She had meant
to give him a hint in all kindness, and he would not be slow to take it.
What she had meant to say was, "Take her yourself quickly, or some one
else will take her from you."

And Sir John said to himself that he would so take her, and that as
quickly as possible.

Standing talking to her younger son, later on that evening, Lady Kynaston
said to him, suddenly,

"Why does Vera wear peacock's feathers?"

"Why should she not?"

"They are bad luck."

Maurice laughed. "I never knew you to be superstitious before, mother."

"I am not so really; but from choice I would avoid anything that bears an
unlucky interpretation. I saw her with you in the conservatory as I came
downstairs."

Maurice turned suddenly red. "Did you?" he asked, a little anxiously.

"Yes. I did not know it was her, of course. I did not see her face, only
her dress, and I noticed that it was trimmed with peacock's feathers;
that was what made me recognize her afterwards."

"That was bad luck, at all events," said Maurice, almost involuntarily.

"Why?" asked Lady Kynaston, looking up at him sharply. But Maurice would
not tell her why.

Lady Kynaston asked no more questions; but she pondered, and she watched.
Captain Kynaston did not dance again with Vera that night, and he did
dance several times with Mrs. Romer; it did not escape her notice,
however, that he seemed absent and abstracted, and that his face bore its
hardest and sternest aspect throughout the remainder of the evening.

So the ball at Shadonake came to an end, as balls do, with the first
gleams of daylight; and nothing was left of all the gay crowd who had so
lately filled the brilliant rooms but several sleepy people creeping up
slowly to bed, and a great _chiffonade_ of tattered laces, and flowers,
and coloured scraps littered all over the polished floor of the
ball-room