hough it were a duty forced upon her.
She had, however, promised to come to the ball. That promise she had
deliberately broken.

Though he could not understand her, he made pretence of unconcern. He
regretted that she had not felt well last night--that was all.

At the end of the cloister young Gellatly found one of Lady Murie's
guests, a girl named Violet Priest, with whom he had danced a good deal
on the previous night, and at once attached himself to her, leaving
Walter with the sweet-faced, slim-waisted object of his affections.

The moment they were alone in the long cloister he asked her quickly,
"Tell me, Gabrielle, the real reason why you did not come last night. I
had looked forward very much to seeing you. But I was disappointed
--sadly disappointed."

"I am very sorry," she laughed, with assumed nonchalance; "but I had to
assist my father with some business papers."

"Your mother told everyone that you do not care for dancing," he said.

"That is untrue, Walter. I love dancing."

"I knew it was untrue, dearest," he said, standing before her. "But why
does Lady Heyburn go out of her way to throw cold water upon you and all
your works?"

"How should I know?" asked the girl, with a slight shrug. "Perhaps it is
because my father places more confidence in me than in her."

"And his confidence is surely not misplaced," he said. "I tell you
frankly that I don't like Lady Heyburn."

"She pretends to like you."

"Pretends!" he echoed. "Yes, it's all pretence. But," he added, "do tell
me the real reason of your absence last night, Gabrielle. It has worried
me."

"Why worry, my dear Walter? Is it really worth troubling over? I'm only
a girl, and, as such, am allowed vagaries of nerves--and all that. I
simply didn't want to come, that's all."

"Why?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, I hate the crowd we have staying in our
house. They are all mother's friends; and mother's friends are never
mine, you know."

He looked at her slim figure, so charming in its daintiness. "What a
dear little philosopher you've grown to be in a single year!" he
declared. "We shall have you quoting Friedrich Nietzsche next."

"Well," she laughed, "if you would like me to quote him I can do so. I
read _Zarathustra_ secretly at school. One of the girls got a copy from
Germany. Do you remember what Zarathustra says: 'Verily, ye could wear
no better masks, ye present-day men, than your own faces,' Who could
recognise you?"

"I