n discussed between them
for weeks, she would not have greatly cared for his refusal to attend
it. When Sir Roland asserted himself, it was her habit to yield without
argument.

But now, for the first time, she asked herself if he were not presuming
upon her wifely submission. He would think more of her if she resisted
him, whispered her hurt pride, recalling the courteous indifference
which it was his custom to mete out to her. But dared she do this
thing?

She took up the invitation again and read it. It was to be a fancy-dress
ball, and all were to wear masks. The waltz which she had learned to
dance from Lady Blythebury herself and which was only just coming into
vogue in England, was to be one of the greatest features of the evening.
There would be no foolish formality, Lady Blythebury had assured her.
The masks would preclude that. Altogether the whole entertainment
promised to be of so entrancing a nature that she had permitted herself
to look forward to it with considerable pleasure. But she might have
guessed that Sir Roland would refuse to go, she reflected, as she sat in
her dainty room with the invitation before her. Did he ever attend any
function that was not so stiff and dull that she invariably pined to
depart from the moment of arrival?

Again she read the invitation, recalling Lady Blythebury's gay words
when last they had talked the matter over.

"If only Una could come without the lion for once!" she had said.

And she herself had almost echoed the wish. Sir Roland always spoilt
everything.

Well!--She took up her pen. She supposed she must refuse. A moment it
hovered above the paper. Then, very slowly, it descended and began to
write.

* * *

The chatter of many voices and the rhythm of dancing feet, the strains
of a string-band in the distance, and, piercing all, the clear, high
notes of a flute, filled the spring night with wonderful sound. Lady
Blythebury had turned her husband's house into a fairy palace of
delight. She stood in the doorway of the ballroom, her florid face
beaming above her Elizabethan ruffles, looking in upon the gay and
ever-shifting scene which she had called into being.

"I feel as if I had stepped into an Arabian Night," she laughed to one
of her guests, who stood beside her. He was dressed as a court jester,
and carried a wand which he flourished dramatically. He wore a
close-fitting black mask.

"There is certainly magic abroad," he declar