the little procession
stopped.

Edmund was more artistic in taste than in temperament, and he was not
imaginative. But he could not enjoy the full satisfaction of his
fastidious tastes to-night, nor had he his usual facility for speech. He
could not bring himself to utter one word to Molly. They stood for that
moment close together, looking at each other in a silence that was
electric. No wonder that Molly thought his incapacity to speak a
wonderful thing; others, too, noticed it.

"What a bearing that girl has! What movement!" cried the Ambassador, as,
after greeting the first few couples who passed him, he drew Grosse to a
corner and looked at him curiously. But Edmund seemed moonstruck. Then,
in a perfunctory voice, he said slowly.

"What is the writing in that picture?"

"Mene Thekel Phares," said his friend. "My dear Grosse! surely you know
a picture of the 'Fall of Babylon' when you see it? Now let us go where
we shall not be interrupted. Tell me all about this girl with the
amazing bearing and big eyes, whom princes delight to honour, and
Duchesses to dine with! How did she get dear Rose Bright's money?"

Edmund had never disliked a question more.

"I'll tell you all I know," he said unblushingly, "but not to-night, old
fellow. It would take too long."

And to his joy a countess and a beauty seized upon the terribly curious
diplomatist and made him take her down to supper. And they agreed while
they supped exquisitely that the real job dear old Grosse ought to be
given was that of husband to their hostess.

"But then there is poor Rose Bright."

"Lady Rose Bright would not have him when he was rich," he objected.
"No; this will do very nicely. If I am not mistaken (and I'm pretty well
read in human eyes), the lady is willing."

After supper there was dancing. Edmund did not dance. He stood in a
corner, his tall form a little bent, merely watching, and presently he
turned away. He had made up his mind. He would not try to speak to Molly
to-night, and he would not ask her for a talk.

She was dancing as he left the room, and he turned half mechanically to
watch her. It was always an exquisite pleasure to see her dance. He left
her with a curious sense of farewell in his mind. Fate was coming fast,
he knew; he could not doubt that for a moment. He was not the man to
avert it. No one could avert it. It was part of the tragedy that, pity
her as he might, he could not really wish to avert it. He would give