d with them. She clapped her hands once more
with a delight which was contagious. "Ah, I know now, this is what it is
to have _succes_," she cried.

"Now," said the Contessa, "it is the turn of Lord Montjoie, who is a
dab--that is the word--at singing, and who promised me three for one."

At this there rose a hubbub of laughter, in the midst of which, though
with many protestations and remonstrances, "don't you know," that young
nobleman was driven to the fulfilment of his promise. In the midst of
this commotion, a sign as swift as lightning, but, unlike lightning,
imperceptible, a lifting of the eyebrows, a movement of a finger, was
given and noted. In such a musical assembly the performance of a young
marquis, with nobody knows how many thousands a year and entirely his
own master, is rarely without interest. Mr. Derwentwater turned his back
with marked indifference, and Jock with a sort of snort went away
altogether. But of the others, the majority, though some with laughter
and some with sneers, were civil, and listened to the performance. Jock
marched off with a disdain beyond expression; but he had scarcely issued
forth into the hall before he heard a rustle behind him, and, looking
back, to his amazement saw Bice in all the glory of her golden robes.

"Hush!" she cried, smothering a laugh, and with a quick gesture of
repression, "don't say anything. It must not be discovered that I have
run away!"

"Why have you run away? I thought you thought no end of that little
scug," cried savage Jock.

Bice turned upon him that smile that said everything and nothing, and
then flew like a bird upstairs.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE EVENING AFTER.

The outcry that rose when, after Montjoie's comic song, a performance of
the broadest and silliest description, was over, it was discovered that
Bice had disappeared, and especially the blank look of the performer
himself when turning round from the piano he surveyed the company in
vain for her, gratified the Contessa beyond measure. She smiled
radiantly upon the assembly in answer to all their indignant questions.
"It has been for once an indulgence," she said; "but little girls must
keep early hours." Montjoie was wounded and disappointed beyond measure
that it should have been at the moment of his performance that she was
spirited away. His reproaches were vehement, and there was something of
the pettishness of a boy in their indignant tones. "I shouldn't have
sung a n