seated herself, eyes again fixed on the water,
hands clasped tightly upon her knee, and Duane found a place at her
elbow. So they began a duet of silence.

The little wavelets came dancing shoreward out of the darkness, breaking
with a thin, splashing sound against the shale at their feet. Somewhere
in the night a restless heron croaked and croaked among the willows.

"Well, little girl?" he asked at last.

"Well?" she inquired, with a calmness that did not mislead him.

"I couldn't come to you after the third dance," he said.

"Why?"

He evaded the question: "When I came back to the glade the dancing was
already over; so I got Kathleen and Naida to save a table."

"Where had you been all the while?"

"If you really wish to know," he said pleasantly, "I was talking to Jack
Dysart on some rather important matters. I did not realise how the time
went."

She sat mute, head lowered, staring out across the dark water. Presently
he laid one hand over hers, and she straightened up with a tiny shock,
turned and looked him full in the eyes.

"I'll tell you why you failed me--failed to keep the first appointment I
ever asked of you. It was because you were so preoccupied with a mask in
flame colour."

He thought a moment:

"Did you believe you saw me with somebody in a vermilion costume?"

"Yes; I did see you. It was too late for me to retire without
attracting your attention. I was not a willing eavesdropper."

"Who was the girl you thought you saw me with?"

"Sylvia Quest. She unmasked. There is no mistake."

So he was obliged to lie, after all.

"It must have been Dysart you saw. His costume is very like mine, you
know----"

"Does Jack Dysart stand for minutes holding Sylvia's hands--and is she
accustomed to place her hands on his shoulders, as though expecting to
be kissed? And does he kiss her?"

So he had to lie again: "No, of course not," he said, smiling. "So it
could not have been Dysart."

"There are only two costumes like yours and Mr. Dysart's. Do you wish me
to believe that Sylvia is common and depraved enough to put her arms
around the neck of a man who is married?"

There was no other way: "No," he said, "Sylvia isn't that sort, of
course."

"It was either Mr. Dysart or you."

He said nothing.

"Then it _was_ you!" in hot contempt.

Still he said nothing.

"Was it?" with a break in her voice.

"Men can't admit things of that kind," he managed to say.

The angry colour surged up