s;
and after she had greeted him with absent-minded cordiality, he passed
with Margaret in the direction of the thundering sounds which came from
the bank of ferns behind which the musicians were hidden.

"Shall we try this?" he shouted into Margaret's ear.

She shook her head. "It's one of those horrid new things." Her high,
clear tones pierced the din like the music of a flute. "Let's wait until
they play something nice. I hate jazz."

She was looking very pretty in a dress like a white cloud, with garlands
of tiny rosebuds on the skirt; and he thought, as he looked at her, that
if she had only been a trifle less fastidious and refined, she might
easily have won the reputation of a beauty. Nothing but a delicate
superiority to the age in which she had been born, stood in the way of
her success. Sixty years ago, in modest crinolines, she might have made
history; and duels would probably have been fought for her favour. But
other times, other tastes, he reflected.

For the rest of the dance, they sat sedately between two bay-trees in
green tubs that occupied a corner of the room. Then "something nicer"
started,--a concession to Mrs. Harrison's mother, who shared Margaret's
disapproval of jazz,--and Stephen and Margaret drifted slowly out among
the revolving couples. After the third dance, relief appeared in the
person of the young clergyman, who had come to look on; and leaving
Margaret with him between the bay-trees, Stephen started eagerly to
search for Patty where the dancers were thickest.

Across the room, he had already caught a glimpse of Corinna, in a
queenly gown of white and silver brocade. She had stopped dancing now;
and standing between Alice Rokeby and John Benham, she was glancing
brightly about her, while she waved slowly a fan of white ostrich
plumes. Among all these fresh young girls, she could easily hold her
own, not because of her beauty, but because of that deeper fascination
which she shed like a light or a perfume. She had the something more
than beauty which these girls lacked and could never acquire--a
legendary enchantment, the air of romance. Was this the result, he
wondered now, of what she had missed in life rather than of what she had
attained? Was it because she had never lived completely, because she had
preferred the dream to the event, because she had desired and refrained,
because she had missed both enchantment and disenchantment--was it
because of the profound inadequacy of exp