Innocent : her fancy and his fact

by Marie Corelli

  CHAPTER III

  Some weeks later on, when the London season was at its height, andFashion, that frilled and furbelowed goddess, sat enthroned in state,controlling the moods of the Elect and Select which she chooses to call"society," Innocent was invited to the house of a well-known Duchess,renowned for a handsome personality, and also for an unassailableposition, notwithstanding certain sinister rumours. People said--peopleare always saying something!--that her morals were easy-going, buteveryone agreed that her taste was unimpeachable. She--this great ladywhose rank permitted her to entertain the King and Queen--heard of "EnaArmitage" as the brilliant author whose books were the talk of thetown, and forthwith made up her mind that she must be seen at her houseas the "sensation" of at least one evening. To this end she glided inher noiseless, satin-cushioned motor brougham up to the door of MissLeigh's modest little dwelling and left the necessary slips ofpasteboard bearing her titled name, with similar slips on behalf of herhusband the Duke, for Miss Armitage and Miss Leigh. The slips werefollowed in due course by a more imposing and formal card of invitationto a "Reception and Small Dance. R.S.V.P." On receiving this, good oldMiss Lavinia was a little fluttered and excited, and turning it overand over in her hand, looked at Innocent with a kind of nervous anxiety.

  "I think we ought to go, my dear," she said--"or rather--I don't knowabout myself--but YOU ought to go certainly. It's a great house--agreat family--and she is a very great lady--a little--well!--a little'modern' perhaps--"

  Innocent lifted her eyebrows with a slight, almost weary smile. Ascarcely perceptible change had come over her of late--a change toosubtle to be noticed by anyone who was not as keenly observant as MissLavinia--but it was sufficient to give the old lady who loved her causefor a suspicion of trouble.

  "What is it to be modern?" she asked--"In your sense, I mean? I knowwhat is called 'modern' generally--bad art, bad literature, bad mannersand bad taste! But what do YOU call modern?"

  Miss Leigh considered--looking at the girl with steadfast, kindly eyes.

  "You speak a trifle bitterly--for YOU, dear child!" she said--"Thesethings you name as 'modern' truly are so, but they are ancient as well!The world has altered very little, I think. What we call 'bad' hasalways existed as badness--it is only presented to us in differentforms--"

  Innocent laughed--a soft little laugh of tenderness.

  "Wise godmother!" she said, playfully--"You talk like a book!"

  Miss Lavinia laughed too, and a pretty pink colour came into her wancheeks.

  "Naughty child, you are making fun of me!" she said--"What I meantabout the Duchess--"

  Innocent stretched out her hand for the card of invitation and lookedat it.

  "Well!" she said, slowly--"What about the Duchess?"

  Miss Leigh hesitated.

  "I hardly know how to put it," she answered, at last--"She's akind-hearted woman--very generous--and most helpful in works ofcharity. I never knew such energy as she shows in organising charitybails and bazaars!--perfectly wonderful!--but she likes to live herlife--"

  "Who would not!" murmured the girl, scarcely audibly.

  "And she lives it--very much so!--rather to the dregs!" continued theold lady, with emphasis. "She has no real aim beyond the satisfactionof her own vanity and social power--and you, with your beautifulthoughts and ideals, might not like the kind of people she surroundsherself with--people, who only want amusement and'sensation'--particularly sensation--"

  Innocent said nothing for a minute or two--then she looked up, brightly.

  "To go or not to go, godmother mine! Which is it to be? The decisionrests with you! Yes, or no?"

  "I think it must be 'yes'"--and Miss Leigh emphasised the word with alittle nod of her head. "It would be unwise to refuse--especially justnow when everyone is talking of you and wishing to see you. And you arequite worth seeing!"

  The girl gave a slight gesture of indifference and moved away slowlyand listlessly, as though fatigued by the mere effort of speech. MissLeigh noted this with some concern, watching her as she went, andadmiring the supple grace of her small figure, the well-shaped littlehead so proudly poised on the slim throat, and the burnished sheen ofher bright hair.

  "She grows prettier every day," she thought--"But not happier, Ifear!--not happier, poor child!"

  Innocent meanwhile, upstairs in her own little study, was reading andre-reading a brief letter which had come for her by the same post thathad delivered the Duchess's invitation.

  "I hear you are among the guests invited to the Duchess of Deanshire'sparty," it ran--"I hope you will go--for the purely selfish reason thatI want to meet you there. Hers is a great house with plenty of room,and a fine garden--for London. People crowd to her 'crushes', but onecan always escape the mob. I have seen so little of you lately, and youare now so famous that I shall think myself lucky if I may touch thehem of your garment. Will you encourage me thus far? Like Hamlet, 'Ilack advancement'! When will you take me to Briar Farm? I should liketo see the tomb of my very ancestral uncle--could we not arrange aday's outing in the country while the weather is fine? I throw myselfon your consideration and clemency for this--and for many otherunwritten things!

  Yours,

  AMADIS DE JOCELYN."

  There was nothing in this easily worded scrawl to make an ordinarilynormal heart beat faster, yet the heart of this simple child of thegods, gifted with genius and deprived of worldly wisdom as all suchdivine children are, throbbed uneasily, and her eyes were wet. Morethan this, she touched the signature,--the long-familiar name--with hersoft lips,--and as though afraid of what she had done, hurriedly foldedthe letter and locked it away.

  Then she sat down and thought. Nearly two years had elapsed since shehad left Briar Farm, and in that short time she had made the name shehad adopted famous. She could not call it her own name; born out ofwedlock, she had no right, by the stupid law, to the name of herfather. She could, legally, have worn the maiden name of her mother hadshe known it--but she did not know it. And what she was thinking ofnow, was this: Should she tell her lately discovered second "Amadis deJocelyn" the true story of her birth and parentage at this, the outsetof their friendship, before--well, before it went any further? Shecould not consult Miss Leigh on the point, without smirching thereputation of Pierce Armitage, the man whose memory was enshrined inthat dear lady's heart as a thing of unsullied honour. She puzzledherself over the question for a long time, and then decided to keep herown counsel.

  "After all, why should I tell him?" she asked herself. "It might maketrouble--he is so proud of his lineage, and I too am proud of it forhim! ... why should I let him know that I inherit nothing but mymother's shame!"

  Her heart grew heavy as her position was thus forced back upon her byher own thoughts. Up to the present no one had asked who she was, orwhere she came from--she was understood to be an orphan, left alone inthe world, who by her own genius and unaided effort had lifted herselfinto the front rank among the "shining lights" of the day. This, sofar, had been sufficient information for all with whom she had come incontact--but as time went on, would not people ask more about her?--whowere her father and mother?--where she was born?--how she had beeneducated? These inquisitorial demands were surely among the penaltiesof fame! And, if she told the truth, would she not, despite the renownshe had won, be lightly, even scornfully esteemed by conventionalsociety as a "bastard" and interloper, though the manner of her birthwas no fault of her own, and she was unjustly punishable for the sinsof her parents, such being the wicked law!

  The night of the Duchess's reception was one of those close sultrynights of June in London when the atmosphere is well-nigh assuffocating as that of some foetid prison where criminals have beenpacing their dreary round all day. Royal Ascot was just over, and spaceand opportunity were given for several social entertainments to beconveniently checked off before Henley. Outside the Duke's great housethere was a constant stream of motor-cars and taxi-cabs; a passingstranger might have imagined all the world and his wife were going
tothe Duchess's "At Home." It was difficult to effect an entrance, butonce inside, the scene was one of veritable enchantment. The lovelyhues and odours of flowers, the softened glitter of thousands ofelectric lamps shaded with rose-colour, the bewildering brilliancy ofwomen's clothes and jewels, the exquisite music pouring like a ripplingstream through the magnificent reception-rooms, all combined to createa magical effect of sensuous beauty and luxury; and as Innocent,accompanied by the sweet-faced old-fashioned lady who played the partof chaperone with such gentle dignity, approached her hostess, she wasa little dazzled and nervous. Her timidity made her look all the morecharming--she had the air of a wondering child called up to receive anunexpected prize at school. She shrank visibly when her name wasshouted out in a stentorian voice by the gorgeously liveried major-domoin attendance, quite unaware that it created a thrill throughout thefashionable assemblage, and that all eyes were instantly upon her. TheDuchess, diamond-crowned and glorious in gold-embroidered tissue, keptback by a slight gesture the pressing crowd of guests, and extended herhand with marked graciousness and a delightful smile.

  "SUCH a pleasure and honour!" she said, sweetly--"So good of you tocome! You will give me a few words with you later on? Yes? Everybodywill want to speak to you!--but you must let me have a chance too!"

  Innocent murmured something gently deprecatory as a palliative to thissort of society "gush" which always troubled her--and moved on.Everybody gazed, whispered and wondered, astonished at the youth andevident unworldliness of the "author of those marvellous books!"--sothe commentary ran;--the women criticised her gown, which was one ofpale blue silken stuff caught at the waist and shoulders by quaintclasps of dull gold--a gown with nothing remarkable about it save itscut and fit--melting itself, as it were, around her in harmonious foldsof fine azure which suggested without emphasising the graceful lines ofher form. The men looked, and said nothing much except "A pity she's awriting woman! Mucking about Fleet Street!"--mere senseless talk whichthey knew to be senseless, inasmuch as "mucking" about Fleet Street isno part of any writer's business save that of the professionaljournalist. Happily ignorant of comment, the girl made her way quietlyand unobtrusively through the splendid throng, till she was presentlyaddressed by a stoutish, pleasant-featured man, with small twinklingeyes and an agreeable surface manner.

  "I missed you just now when my wife received you," he said--"May Ipresent myself? I am your host--proud of the privilege!"

  Innocent smiled as she bowed and held out her hand; she was amused, andtaken a little by surprise. This was the Duke of Deanshire--this quiteinsignificant-looking personage--he was the owner of the great houseand the husband of the great lady,--and yet he had the appearance of avery ordinary nobody. But that he was a "somebody" of paramountimportance there was no doubt; and when he said, "May I give you my armand take you through the rooms? There are one or two pictures you maylike to see," she was a little startled. She looked round for MissLeigh, but that tactful lady, seeing the position, had disappeared. Soshe laid her little cream-gloved hand on the Duke's arm and went withhim, shyly at first, yet with a pretty stateliness which was all herown, and moving slowly among the crowd of guests, gradually recoveredher ease and self-possession, and began to talk to him with adelightful naturalness and candour which fairly captivated His Grace,in fact, "bowled him over," as he afterwards declared. She wasblissfully unaware that his manner of escorting her on his arm throughthe long vista of the magnificent rooms had been commanded and arrangedby the Duchess, in order that she should be well looked at andcriticised by all assembled as the "show" person of the evening. Shewas so unconscious of the ordeal to which she was being subjected thatshe bore it with the perfect indifference which such unconsciousnessgives. All at once the Duke came to a standstill.

  "Here is a great friend of mine--one of the best I have in the world,"he said--"I want to introduce him to you,"--this, as a tall old manpaused near them with a smile and enquiring glance, "Lord Blythe--MissArmitage."

  Innocent's heart gave a wild bound; for a moment she felt a strugglingsensation in her throat moving her to cry out, and it was only with aviolent effort that she repressed herself.

  "You've heard of Miss Armitage--Ena Armitage,--haven't you, Blythe?"went on the Duke, garrulously. "Of course! all the world has heard ofher!"

  "Indeed it has!" and Lord Blythe bowed ceremoniously. "May Icongratulate you on winning your laurels while you are young enough toenjoy them! One moment!--my wife is most anxious to meet you--"

  He turned to look for her, while Innocent, trembling violently,wondered desperately whether it would be possible for her to runaway!--anywhere--anywhere, rather than endure what she knew must come!The Duke noticed her sudden pallor with concern.

  "Are you cold?" he asked--"I hope there is no draught---"

  "Oh no--no!" she murmured--"It is nothing--"

  Then she braced herself up in every nerve--drawing her little bodyerect, as though a lily should lift itself to the sun--she saw LordBlythe approaching with a handsome woman dressed in silvery grey andwearing a coronet of emeralds--and in one more moment looked full inthe face--of her mother!

  "Lady Blythe--Miss Armitage."

  Lady Blythe turned white to the lips. Her dark eyes opened widely inamazement and fear--she put out a hand as though to steady herself. Herhusband caught it, alarmed.

  "Maude! Are you ill?"

  "Not at all!" and she forced a laugh. "I am perfectly--perfectlywell!--a little faint perhaps! The heat, I think! Yes--of course! MissArmitage--the famous author! I am--I am very proud to meet you!"

  "Most kind of you!" said Innocent, quietly.

  And they still looked at each other, very strangely.

  The men beside them were a little embarrassed, the Duke twirled hisshort white moustache, and Lord Blythe glanced at his wife with somewonder and curiosity. Both imagined, with the usual short-sightednessof the male sex, that the women had taken a sudden fantastic dislike toone another.

  "By jove, she's jealous!" thought the Duke, fully aware that LadyBlythe was occasionally "moved that way."

  "The girl seems frightened of her," was Lord Blythe's inward comment,knowing that his wife did not always create a sympathetic atmosphere.

  But her ladyship was soon herself again and laughed quite merrily ather husband's anxious expression.

  "I'm all right--really!" she said, with a quick, almost defiant turn ofher head towards him, the emeralds in her dark hair flashing with asinister gleam like lightning on still water. "You must remember it'srather overwhelming to be introduced to a famous author and think ofjust the right thing to say at the right moment! Isn't it, MissArmitage?"

  "It is as you feel," replied Innocent, coldly.

  Lady Blythe rattled on gaily.

  "Do come and talk to me for a few moments!--it will be so good of you!The garden's lovely!--shall we go there? Now, my dear Duke, don't lookso cross, I'll bring her back to you directly!" and she noddedpleasantly. "You want her, of course!--everybody wants her!--such acelebrity!" then, turning again to Innocent, "Will you come?"

  As one in a dream the girl obeyed her inviting gesture, and they passedout of the room together through a large open French window to aterraced garden, dimly illumined in the distance by the glitter offairy lamps, but for the most part left to the tempered brilliancy of amisty red moon. Once away from the crowd, Lady Blythe walked quicklyand impatiently, scarcely looking at the youthful figure thataccompanied her own, like a fair ghost gliding step for step besideher. At last she stopped; they were well away from the house in aquaint bit of garden shaded with formal fir-trees and clipped yews,where a fountain dashed up a slender spiral thread of white spray. Astrange sense of fury in her broke loose; with pale face and cruel,glittering eyes she turned upon her daughter.

  "How dare you!" she half whispered, through her set teeth--"How dareyou!"

  Innocent drew back a step, and looked at her steadfastly.

  "I do not understand you," she said.

  "You do understand!-
-you understand only too well!" and Lady Blythe puther hand to the pearls at her throat as though she felt them chokingher. "Oh, I could strike you for your insolence! I wish I had neversought you out or told you how you were born! Is this your revenge forthe manner of your birth, that you come to shame me among my ownclass--my own people--"

  Innocent's eyes flashed with a fire seldom seen in their soft depths.

  "Shame you?" she echoed. "I? What shame have I brought you? What shameshall I bring? Had you owned me as your child I would have made youproud of me! I would have given you honour,--you abandoned me tostrangers, and I have made honour for myself! Shame is YOURS and yoursonly!--it would be mine if I had to acknowledge YOU as my mother!--youwho never had the courage to be true!" Her young voice thrilled withpassion.--"I have won my own way! I am something beyond and aboveyou!--'your own class--your own people,' as you call them, are at MYfeet,--and you--you who played with my father's heart and spoilt hiscareer--you have lived to know that I, his deserted child, have madehis name famous!"

  Lady Blythe stared at her like some enraged cat ready to spring.

  "His name--his name!" she muttered, fiercely. "Yes, and how dare youtake it? You have no right to it in law!"

  "Wise law, just law!" said the girl, passionately. "Would you rather Ihad taken yours? I might have done so had I known it--though I thinknot, as I should have been ashamed of any 'maiden' name you haddishonoured! When you came to Briar Farm to find me--to see me--solate, so late!--after long years of desertion--I told you it waspossible to make a name;--one cannot go nameless through the world! Ihave made mine!--independently and honestly--in fact"--and she smiled,a sad cold smile--"it is an honour for you, my mother, to know me, yourdaughter!"

  Lady Blythe's face grew ghastly pale in the uncertain light of thehalf-veiled moon. She moved a step and caught the girl's arm with someviolence.

  "What do you mean to do?" she asked, in an angry whisper, "I must know!What are your plans of vengeance?--your campaign of notoriety?--yourscheme of self-advertisement? What claim will you make?"

  "None!" and Innocent looked at her fully, with calm and fearlessdignity. "I have no claim upon you, thank God! I am less to you than adropped lamb, lost in a thicket of thorns, is to the sheep that boreit! That's a rough country simile,--I was brought up on a farm, youknow!--but it will serve your case. Think nothing of me, as I thinknothing of you! What I am, or what I may be to the world, is my ownaffair!"

  There was a pause. Presently Lady Blythe gave a kind of shrillhysterical laugh.

  "Then, when we meet in society, as we have met to-night, it will be ascomparative strangers?"

  "Why, of course!--we have always been strangers," the girl replied,quietly. "No strangers were ever more strange to each other than we!"

  "You mean to keep MY secret?--and your own?"

  "Certainly. Do you suppose I would give my father's name to slander?"

  "Your father!--you talk of your father as if HE was worthconsideration!--he was chiefly to blame for your position--"

  "Was he? I am not quite sure of that," said Innocent, slowly--"I do notknow all the circumstances. But I have heard that he was a greatartist; and that some woman he loved ruined his life. And I believe youare that woman!"

  Lady Blythe laughed--a hard mirthless laugh.

  "Believe what you like!" she said--"You are an imaginative little fool!When you know more of the world you will find out that men ruin women'slives as casually as cracking nuts, but they take jolly good care oftheir own skins! Pierce Armitage was too selfish a man to sacrifice hisown pleasure and comfort for anyone--he was glad to get rid of me--andof YOU! And now--now!" She threw up her hands with an expressive,half-tragic gesture. "Now you are famous!--actually famous! Goodheavens!--why, I thought you would stay in that old farmhouse all yourlife, scrubbing the floors and looking after the poultry, and perhapsmarrying some good-natured country yokel! Famous!--you!--with socialLondon dancing attendance on you! What a ghastly comedy!" She laughedagain. "Come!--we must go back to the house."

  They walked side by side--the dark full-figured woman and the fairslight girl--the one a mere ephemeral unit in an exclusivelyaristocratic and fashionable "set,"--the other, the possessor of asudden brilliant fame which was spreading a new light across the twohemispheres. Not another word was exchanged between them, and as theyre-entered the ducal reception-rooms, now more crowded than ever, LordBlythe met them.

  "I was just going to look for you," he said to his wife--"There aredozens of people waiting to be presented to Miss Armitage; the Duchesshas asked for her several times."

  Lady Blythe turned to Innocent with a dazzling smile.

  "How guilty I feel!" she exclaimed. "Everybody wanting to see you, andI selfishly detaining you in the garden! It was so good of you to giveme a few minutes!--you, the guest of the evening too! Good-night!--incase I don't find you again in this crowd!"

  She moved away then, leaving Innocent fairly bewildered by her entirecoolness and self-possession. She herself, poor child, moved to thevery soul by the interview she had just gone through, was tremblingwith extreme nervousness, and could hardly conceal her agitation.

  "I'm afraid you've caught cold!" said Lord Blythe, kindly--"That willnever do! I promised I would take you to the Duchess as soon as I foundyou--she has some friends with her who wish to meet you. Will you come?"

  She smiled assent, looking up at him gratefully and thinking what ahandsome old man he was, with his tall, well-formed figure and fineintellectual face on which the constant progress of good thoughts hadmarked many a pleasant line. Her mother's husband!--and she wonderedhow it happened that such a woman had been chosen for a wife by such aman!

  "They're going to dance in the ball-room directly," he continued, as heguided her through the pressing throng of people. "You will not bewithout partners! Are you fond of dancing?"

  Her face lighted up with the lovely youthful look that gave her suchfascination and sweetness of expression.

  "Yes, I like it very much, though before I came to London I only knewcountry dances such as they dance at harvest-homes; but of course here,you all dance so differently!--it is only just going round and round!But it's quite pleasant and rather amusing."

  "You were brought up in the country then?" he said.

  "Yes, entirely. I came to London about two years ago."

  "But--I hope you don't think me too inquisitive!--where did you studyliterature?"

  She laughed a little.

  "I don't think I studied it at all," she answered, "I just loved it!There was a small library of very old books in the farmhouse where Ilived, and I read and re-read these. Then, when I was about sixteen, itsuddenly came into my head that I would try to write a storymyself--and I did. Little by little it grew into a book, and I broughtit to London and finished it here. You know the rest!"

  "Like Byron, you awoke one morning to find yourself famous!" said LordBlythe, smiling. "You have no parents living?"

  Her cheeks burned with a hot blush as she replied.

  "No."

  "A pity! They would have been very proud of you. Here is the Duchess!"

  And in another moment she was drawn into the vortex of a brilliantcircle surrounding her hostess--men and women of notable standing inpolitics, art and letters, to whom the Duchess presented her with thehalf kindly, half patronising air of one who feels that any genius inman or woman is a kind of disease, and that the person affected by itmust be soothingly considered as a sort of "freak" or nondescriptcreature, like a white crow or a red starling.

  "These abnormal people are so interesting!" she was wont to say. "Theseprodigies and things! I love them! They're often quite ugly and haverude manners--Beethoven used to eat with his fingers I believe; wasn'tit wonderful of him! Such a relief from the conventional way! When Iwas quite a girl I used to adore a man in Paris who played the 'cellodivinely--a perfect marvel!--but he wouldn't comb his hair or blow hisnose properly--and it wasn't very nice!--not that it mattered much, hewas such a wonderful
artist! Oh yes, I know! it wouldn't have lessenedhis genius to have wiped his nose with a handkerchief instead of--!well!--perhaps we'd better not mention it!" And she would laughcharmingly and again murmur, "These deaf abnormal people!"

  With Innocent, however, she was somewhat put off her usual line ofconduct; the girl was too graceful and easy-mannered to be called"abnormal" or eccentric; she was perfectly modest, simple andunaffected, and the Duchess was a trifle disappointed that she was notill-dressed, frowsy, frumpish and blue-spectacled.

  "She's so young too!" thought her Grace, half crossly--"Almost achild!--and not in the least 'bookish.' It seems quite absurd that sucha baby-looking creature should be actually a genius, and famous attwenty! Simply amazing!"

  And she watched the little "lion" or lioness of the evening with keeninterest and curiosity, whimsically vexed that it did not roar, snort,or make itself as noticeable as certain other animals of the literaryhabitat whom she had occasionally entertained. Just then a mirthful,mellow voice spoke close beside her.

  "Where is the new Corinne? The Sappho of the Leucadian rock of London?Has she met her Phaon?"

  "How late you are, Amadis!" and the Duchess smiled captivatingly as sheextended her hand to Jocelyn, who gallantly stooped and kissed theperfectly fitting glove which covered it. "If you mean Miss Armitage,she is just over there talking to two old fogies. I think they'reCabinet ministers--they look it! She's quite the success of theevening,--and pretty, don't you think?"

  Jocelyn looked, and saw the small fair head rising like a golden flowerfrom sea-blue draperies; he smiled enigmatically.

  "Not exactly," he answered, "But spirituelle--she has what somepainters might call an imaginative head--she could pose very well forSt. Dorothy. I can quite realise her preferring the executioner's axeto the embraces of Theophilus."

  The Duchess gave him a swift glance and touched his arm with the edgeof her fan.

  "Are you going to make love to her?" she asked. "You make love to everywoman--but most women understand your sort of love-making--"

  "Do they?" and his blue eyes flashed amusement. "And what do they thinkof it?"

  "They laugh at it!" she answered, calmly. "But that clever child wouldnot laugh--she would take it au grand serieux."

  He passed his hand carelessly through the rough dark hair which gavehis ruggedly handsome features a singular softness and charm.

  "Would she? My dear Duchess, nobody takes anything 'au grand serieux'nowadays. We grin through every scene of life, and we don't know anddon't care whether it's comedy or tragedy we're grinning at! It doesn'tdo to be serious. I never am. 'Life is real, life is earnest' was theline of conduct practised by my French ancestors; they cut up all theirenemies with long swords, and then sat down to wild boar roasted wholefor dinner. That was real life, earnest life! We in our day don't cutup our enemies with long swords--we cut them up in the daily press.It's so much easier!"

  "How you love to hear yourself talk!" commented the Duchess. "I let youdo it--but I know you don't mean half you say!"

  "You think not? Well, I'm going to join the court of Corinne--she's notthe usual type of Corinne--I fancy she has a heart--"

  "And you want to steal it if you can, of course!" and the Duchesslaughed. "Men always long for what they haven't got, and tire of whatthey have!"

  "True, O Queen! We are made so! Blame, not us, but the Creator of thepoor world-mannikins!"

  He moved away and was soon beside Innocent, who blushed into a prettyrose at sight of him.

  "I thought you were never coming!" she said, shyly. "I'm so glad youare here!"

  He looked at her with an admiring softness in his eyes.

  "May I have the first dance?" he said. "I timed myself to gain theprivilege."

  She gave him her dance programme where no name was yet inscribed. Hetook it and scribbled his name down several times, then handed it backto her. Several of the younger men in the group which had gatheredabout her laughed and remonstrated.

  "Give somebody else a chance, Miss Armitage!"

  She looked round upon them, smiling.

  "But of course! Mr. Amadis de Jocelyn has not taken all?"

  They laughed again.

  "His name dominates your programme, anyhow!"

  Her eyes shone softly.

  "It is a beautiful name!" she said.

  "Granted! But show a little mercy to the unbeautiful names!" said oneman near her. "My name, for instance, is Smith--can you tolerate it?"

  She gave a light gesture of protest.

  "You play with me!" she said--"Of course! You will find a dance, Mr.Smith!--and I will dance it with you!"

  They were all now ready for fun, and taking her programme handed itround amongst themselves and soon filled it. When it came back to hershe looked at it, amazed.

  "But I shall never dance all these!" she exclaimed.

  "No, you will sit out some of them," said Jocelyn, coolly--"With me!"

  The ball-room doors were just then thrown invitingly open andentrancing strains of rhythmical music came swinging and ringing insweet cadence on the ears. He passed his arm round her waist.

  "We'll begin the revelry!" he said, and in another moment she feltherself floating deliciously, as it were, in his arms--her little feetflying over the polished floor, his hand warmly clasping her slim softbody--and her heart fluttered wildly like the beating wings of a snaredbird as she fell into the mystic web woven by the strange and pitilessloom of destiny. The threads were already tangling about her--but shemade no effort to escape. She was happy in her dream; she imagined thather Ideal had been found in the Real.