sed that Mrs. Stewart was the cause of George Goring's
disappearance from the list of her admirers, and she still had hopes of
his return.

The _tableaux_ were a brilliant success. Ian was there on the first
evening, so was Lady Augusta Goring. Lady Langham, peeping through the
curtains, saw her, and swept the horizon--that is, the circle of black
coats around the walls--in vain for George Goring. Then Lady Augusta
became audible, saying that in the present state of affairs in the House
it was quite impossible for Mr. Goring to leave it, even for dinner, on
that evening or the next. Nevertheless, on the next evening, Lady
Langham espied George Goring in the act of taking a vacant chair near
the front, next to a social _protegee_ of her own. She turned and
mentioned the fact to a friend, who smiled meaningly and remarked, "In
spite of Lady Augusta's whip!"

Mildred, passing, caught the information, the comment, the smile. During
the rehearsals for the _tableaux_, she had heard people coupling the
names of Goring and Lady Langham, not seriously, yet seriously enough
for her. A winged shaft of jealousy pierced at once her heart and her
pride. Was she allowing her whole inner life to be shaken, dissolved by
the passing admiration of a flirt? Her intimate self had assurance that
it was not so; but sometimes a colder wind, blowing she knew not whence,
or the lash of a chance word, threw her into the attitude of a chance
observer, one who sees, guesses, does not know.

Meantime George Goring had flung himself down in the only vacant chair
he could see, and careless of the brilliant company about him, careless
even of the face of Aphrodite herself, smiling divinely, unconcerned
with human affairs, from a far corner he waited for the curtain to go
up. His neighbor spoke. She had met him at the Langhams last season.
What a pity he had just missed Lady Langham's great _tableau_, "Helen
before the Elders of Troy"! There was no one to be compared to Maud
Langham, so beautiful, so clever! She would have made her fortune if she
had gone on the stage. Goring gave the necessary assent.

The curtain went up, exhibiting a picture called "The Vampire." It was
smaller than most and shown by a curious pale light. A fair young girl
was lying in a deep sleep on a curtained bed, and hovering, crawling
over her with a deadly, serpentine grace, was a white figure wrapped in
a veiling garment that might have been a shroud. Out of white cerement