d I do not wonder--even to myself my speeches sound pleasant. What a
comfort it is that, for once in his life, Roger may be honestly proud of
me! And he is.

It is surely pride, and also something better and pleasanter than pride,
that is shining in the smile with which he is watching me from the
door-way. At least, during the first part of the evening he _was_
watching me.

Is not he still? I look round the room. No, he is not here! he has
disappeared! By a sudden connection of ideas I turn my eyes in search of
the high comb and mantilla. Neither are they here. Last time I saw them,
they were sitting on the stairs, pathetically observing to their
companion how hard it was that one might not feel cool without looking
as if one were flirting.

Perhaps they are on the stairs still; perhaps she has gone to bed as she
threatened. Somehow my heart misgives me. I become rather absent: my
partners grow seldomer merry at my speeches. Even my feet feel to fly
less lightly, and I forget to look at myself in the glass. Then it
strikes me suddenly that I will not dance any more. The sparkle seems to
have gone out of the evening since I missed Roger's face from the
door-way.

I decline an overture on the part of my first friend to trip a measure
with me--we have already tripped several--and, by the surprise and
slight mortification which I read on his face as he turns away, I think
I must have done it with some abruptness.

I decline everybody. I stand in the door-way, whence I can command both
the ballroom and the passages. They are not on the stairs.

A moment ago Mr. Parker came up to me, and told me in his gay, loud
voice how much he would like to have a valse with me, but that his
clothes are so tight, he really _dare not_. Then he disappears among the
throng, with an uncomfortable sidelong movement, which endeavors to
shield the incompleteness of his back view.

I am still smiling at his dilemma, when another voice sounds in my ears.

"You are not dancing?"

It is Musgrave. He has had the vanity to take off his absurd costume,
and to wash the powder from his hair, and the rouge from his cheeks. He
stands before me now, cool, pale, and civilized, in the faultless
quietness of his evening dress.

"No," reply I, shortly, "I am not!"

"Will you dance with me?"

I am not looking at him; indeed, I never look at him now, if I can help;
but I hear a sort of hesitating defiance in his tone.

"No, thank you"--(still mor