s Curzon is indeed taller
than most men, and is, besides, a man hardly to be mistaken again when
once seen. Perpetua has seen him very frequently of late.

CHAPTER XI.

"But all was false and hollow; though his tongue
Dropped manna, and could make the worse appear
The better reason, to perplex and dash
Maturest counsels."

"Shall I take you to Lady Baring?" says Hardinge, quickly, rising and
bending as if to offer her his arm.

"No, thank you," coldly.

"I think," anxiously, "you once told me you did not care for Sir----"

"Did I? It seems quite terrible the amount of things I have told
everybody." There is a distinct flash in her lovely eyes now, and her
small hand has tightened round her fan. "Sometimes--I talk folly! As a
fact" (with a touch of defiance), "I like Sir Hastings, although he _is_
my guardian's brother!--my guardian who would so gladly get rid of me."
There is bitterness on the young, red mouth.

"You should not look at it in that light."

"Should I not? You should be the last to say that, seeing that you were
the one to show me how to regard it. Besides, you forget Sir Hastings is
Lady Baring's brother too, and--you haven't anything to say against
_her_, have you? Ah!" with a sudden lovely smile, "you, Sir Hastings?"

"You are not dancing," says the tall, gaunt man, who has now come up to
her. "So much I have seen. Too warm? Eh? You show reason, I think. And
yet, if I might dare to hope that you would give me this waltz----"

"No, no," says she, still with her most charming air. "I am not dancing
to-night. I shall not dance this year."

"That is a Median law, no doubt," says he. "If you will not dance with
me, then may I hope that you will give me the few too short moments that
this waltz may contain?"

Hardinge makes a vague movement but an impetuous one. If the girl had
realized the fact of his love for her, she might have been touched and
influenced by it, but as it is she feels only a sense of anger towards
him. Anger unplaced, undefined, yet nevertheless intense.

"With pleasure," says she to Sir Hastings, smiling at him almost across
Hardinge's outstretched hand. The latter draws back.

"You dismiss me?" says he, with a careful smile. He bows to her--he is
gone.

"A well-meaning young man," says Sir Hastings, following Hardinge's
retreating figure with a delightfully lenient smile. "Good-looking too;
but earnest. Have you noticed it? Entirely well-bred, b