he East. The dancers came crowding to the
windows, pushed them open, and here and there ventured a foot upon the
grass.

"How silly the poor old lights look!" said Evelyn M. in a curiously
subdued tone of voice. "And ourselves; it isn't becoming." It was true;
the untidy hair, and the green and yellow gems, which had seemed so
festive half an hour ago, now looked cheap and slovenly. The complexions
of the elder ladies suffered terribly, and, as if conscious that a cold
eye had been turned upon them, they began to say good-night and to make
their way up to bed.

Rachel, though robbed of her audience, had gone on playing to herself.
From John Peel she passed to Bach, who was at this time the subject of
her intense enthusiasm, and one by one some of the younger dancers
came in from the garden and sat upon the deserted gilt chairs round the
piano, the room being now so clear that they turned out the lights. As
they sat and listened, their nerves were quieted; the heat and soreness
of their lips, the result of incessant talking and laughing, was
smoothed away. They sat very still as if they saw a building with spaces
and columns succeeding each other rising in the empty space. Then they
began to see themselves and their lives, and the whole of human life
advancing very nobly under the direction of the music. They felt
themselves ennobled, and when Rachel stopped playing they desired
nothing but sleep.

Susan rose. "I think this has been the happiest night of my life!" she
exclaimed. "I do adore music," she said, as she thanked Rachel. "It just
seems to say all the things one can't say oneself." She gave a nervous
little laugh and looked from one to another with great benignity, as
though she would like to say something but could not find the words in
which to express it. "Every one's been so kind--so very kind," she said.
Then she too went to bed.

The party having ended in the very abrupt way in which parties do end,
Helen and Rachel stood by the door with their cloaks on, looking for a
carriage.

"I suppose you realise that there are no carriages left?" said St. John,
who had been out to look. "You must sleep here."

"Oh, no," said Helen; "we shall walk."

"May we come too?" Hewet asked. "We can't go to bed. Imagine lying among
bolsters and looking at one's washstand on a morning like this--Is that
where you live?" They had begun to walk down the avenue, and he turned
and pointed at the white and green villa on th