ste had not sung the
promised ditties, but in the midst of the whirl and excitement of
dances, of the inspiring tunes of the string band, the elaborate supper
and recherche wines, no one had paid much heed to this change in the
programme of entertainments.

And everyone had agreed that never had Lady Blakeney looked more
radiantly beautiful than on this night. She seemed absolutely
indefatigable; a perfect hostess, full of charming little attentions
towards every one, although more than ordinarily absorbed by her duties
towards her many royal guests.

The dramatic incidents which had taken place in the small boudoir had
not been much bruited abroad. It was always considered bad form in
those courtly days to discuss men's quarrels before ladies, and in this
instance, those who were present when it all occurred instinctively felt
that their discretion would be appreciated in high circles, and held
their tongues accordingly.

Thus the brilliant evening was brought to a happy conclusion without a
single cloud to mar the enjoyment of the guests. Marguerite performed a
veritable miracle of fortitude, forcing her very smiles to seem natural
and gay, chatting pleasantly, even wittily, upon every known fashionable
topic of the day, laughing merrily the while her poor, aching heart was
filled with unspeakable misery.

Now, when everybody had gone, when the last of her guests had bobbed
before her the prescribed curtsey, to which she had invariably responded
with the same air of easy self-possession, now at last she felt free to
give rein to her thoughts, to indulge in the luxury of looking her own
anxiety straight in the face and to let the tension of her nerves relax.

Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been the last to leave and Percy had strolled
out with him as far as the garden gate, for Lady Ffoulkes had left in
her chaise some time ago, and Sir Andrew meant to walk to his home, not
many yards distant from Blakeney Manor.

In spite of herself Marguerite felt her heartstrings tighten as she
thought of this young couple so lately wedded. People smiled a
little when Sir Andrew Ffoulkes' name was mentioned, some called him
effeminate, other uxorious, his fond attachment for his pretty little
wife was thought to pass the bounds of decorum. There was no doubt that
since his marriage the young man had greatly changed. His love of sport
and adventure seemed to have died out completely, yielding evidently to
the great, more overpowering