d the old white lace evening-dress
that she had worn to dine with her cousin, was strewn with the delicate
underclothing, the sumptuous wraps and costly knick-knacks of wealthy
women. She had felt ashamed, as she had undressed there, of her own poor
little belongings among these; and ashamed to be so ashamed. As she had
seen her garments overswept by the folds of the fair Socialist's white
velvet mantle, lined with Arctic fox and clasped with diamonds, she had
smiled ironically at the juxtaposition. Since circumstances and her own
gifts had drawn her into the stream of the world, she had been more and
more conscious, however unwillingly, of a longing for luxuries, for rich
settings to her beauty, for some stage upon which her brilliant
personality might shine uplifted, secure. For she seemed to herself
sometimes like a tumbler at a fair, struggling in the crowd for a space
in which to spread his carpet. Now--George Goring loved her. Let the
others keep their furs and laces and gewgaws, their great fortunes or
great names. Yet if it had been possible for her to take George Goring's
love, he could have given her most of these things as well.

Wrapped in a gauzy white scarf, she seemed to float rather than walk
down the stairs into the hall, where Thomas the Rhymer was lingering, in
the hope of finding an excuse to escort her home. She was pale, with a
clear, beautiful pallor, a strange smile was on her lips and her eyes
shone like stars. The Queen of Faerie had looked less lovely, meeting
him on the edge of the wood. She nodded him good-night and passed
quickly on into the porch. With a boyish pang he saw her vanish, not
into the darkness of night, but into the blond interior of a smart
brougham. A young man, also smart--her husband, for aught he
knew--paused on the step to give orders to the coachman, and followed
her in. A moment he saw her dimly, in the glare of carriage-lamps, a
white vision, half eclipsed by the black silhouette of the man at her
side; then they glided away over the crunching gravel of the drive, into
the fiery night of London.

"Do you really think it went off well?" she asked, as they passed
through the gates into the street. George was taking off his hat and
putting it down on the little shelf opposite. He leaned back and was
silent a few seconds; then starting forward, laid his hand upon her
knee.

"Don't let's waste time like that, Mildred," he said--and although he
had never called her so be