athbed. His heart beat quick, and he
pressed his lips together, struggling hard to obtain a mastery over
the tumult within him. One moment he wished he could vanish away, the
next he thrilled with rapture at the light touch upon his arm. Mildred
was perplexed. She knew she might esteem any one of whom Rereworth
spoke well. She had been prepared to see, and to excuse, a little
confusion. But there was more here than the confusion of a novice.

"Pardon me, Miss Pendarrel," at length Randolph said, in a voice of
tremulous tenderness: "I am new and strange to society. I have relied
too lightly on my friend's promises. I walk in a dream."

There is a sort of seeming egotism which is very profitable in love.
Few men will fail to excite interest by the true account of their own
emotions. To a woman the confidence is always flattering. Randolph's
speech was strangely at variance with the usual persiflage. But,
perhaps, if he had intended to make love, he could not have spoken
better. Mildred was struck by his accent, and interested by his
manner. But she was experienced.

"A pleasant dream, Mr. Morton, I hope," she said.

He quivered at the sound of the name.

"Pleasant!" he exclaimed; and then recovering himself partly--"I think
it is pleasant.... They are forming quadrilles. Shall we dance, Miss
Pendarrel?"

"If you please," answered Mildred, partly puzzled and partly provoked.
"Mr. Melcomb," she added to that gentleman, as he passed with a lady,
"you will be my _vis-a-vis_."

Melcomb bowed, looked at Mildred's partner, and raised his eyebrows
slightly. Randolph recollected the man he had seen at the opera,
disliked what he fancied was a singular familiarity, and wondered what
was the coxcomb's position in the family. As he warmed in the dance,
however, his moodiness and taciturnity gave way. He flung himself into
the humour of the moment, retrieved his character with his partner,
and obtained another engagement. "Let destiny decide," he said to
himself.

Melcomb was Mildred's partner in the next set.

"Who is your unknown knight?" he asked.

"My partner!" said the lady. "A friend of Mr. Rereworth's."

"He is in love with you," remarked the coxcomb.

"I hope he is," Mildred laughed.

"Cruel! He will languish and die."

"That is as I please. I am to dance with him again."

"Is Mrs. Pendarrel here?"

It was a taunt, and Mildred felt it.

Turn the kaleidoscope. "I consider," wrote Sir Richard Steele, "woman