"At last!" said John Dillwyn. "You have not given it away? You have remembered?"

"The dance?"

"Yes. You know you said you would give me the first on your arrival."

"But this! I am so late! I could not have expected you to wait—-"

"I have waited, however. And it is mine?" He was now looking at her anxiously. What did her manner, her hesitation, mean?

"Yes, of course, but have you no partner?"

"I have, indeed"—laughing. "One I would not readily change. I have you."

"But," looking up at him a little shyly after this plain speech, "how did you arrange it?"

"Very simply. This will be my first waltz as well a yours."

"Oh, that is too bad of you," said the girl, colouring softly. She meant to be angry with him, perhaps; but if so, the effort was a dead failure. The corners of her lips were smiling, and a happy light had crept into her eyes. "To wait so long, and—-"

"It was long. I admit that," interrupted he, smiling. "I thought you would never come."

"It was all Mrs. Poynter's fault," said Agatha. "And really, but for me I am sure she would not be here even now."

"Well, come on, now; let us get even a turn or two," said Dillwyn. "By the bye, the next—is that free?"

"Yes," said Agatha. She felt a little frightened. She hoped he would not know she had kept it free purposely. Four or five men had asked her for dances whilst she stood near the door on her arrival with Mrs. Poynter, and when giving them a dance here and there she had steadily refused to part with the next one. She did not tell herself why at the moment, but she knew all the same.

"May I have it?" asked Dillwyn, with such a delightful anxiety that all at once her mind was set at rest.

He suspected nothing, thought of nothing but his fear that the dance might have been given away before he could ask her for it. Oh, how dear he was! Was there ever any one so good, so perfect?

He passed his arm round her waist, and together they joined the dancers.

Agatha waltzed delightfully. Her lovely svelte figure swayed and sympathised with the music, just as though it had caught her and was moving with her. Dillwyn waltzed well too.

The dance was too soon at an end.

"The night is lovely," said he, "will you come out?" He felt that he wanted to be more alone with her; the presence of the people round checked him, destroyed the keenness of the joy he always knew when with her.

"I should like it," said she.

They went towards the conservatory, from which there were steps to the garden outside. The door of the conservatory opened off the dancing-room, and was close to where Agatha had been standing on her entrance. Darkham was still there.

He had not stirred since Agatha had floated away with Dillwyn's arm around her. He had watched her persistently. He watched her now as she went through the conservatory door down to the gardens, that glad, sweet light upon her face. Were his wife's words true then, after all? Was there something between her and that fellow—that interloper, who had come from no one knew where, to dispute his right in all the parish ailments? His eyes followed them as though they could not tear themselves away, as Dillwyn and Agatha, happy, laughing, went out of the door beyond into the mild and starlit night.

A laugh roused him; it was his wife's. A terrible vision in scarlet satin, trimmed with black velvet bows, met his gaze as he turned. Mrs. Darkham was distinctly en fÊte to-night.

"Well, what d'ye think now? That's her young man. What did I say? Don't you wish you were young, eh? Why, she looks upon you as a Methusaler!"

Darkham drew his breath sharply. He looked quickly round him. Had any one heard? The woman's hideous vulgarity made him sick. Try as he would, how could he raise himself with this incubus hanging round his neck?

He moved away, tired at heart, half mad with misery.

Agatha and Dillwyn had reached the garden by this time—a garden lit by heaven's own lamps, and sweet with the breath of sleeping flowers.

A few other couples were strolling up and down the paths—but over there was a garden-chair untenanted. They moved towards it in a leisurely fashion. Whether they stood or walked or sat, they were together—that was the principal thing.

"The next is mine, too," said he, in a glad voice, as if dwelling on some joy that nothing could spoil.

"Yes. We must take care not to lose it."

"And yet it is so lovely out here. Are you sure you are warm enough? And, at all events, it is a good thing to know we need not hurry—that there is no other partner waiting for either of us."

He seemed to dwell upon the "we" and "us" as if they conveyed great sweetness to him. His heart seemed full. All at once it seemed to him as though he must speak to her—must tell her of the love that filled his heart. The hour, the loneliness, the silence, all tempted him, and yet he feared!

She had known him so short a time—and what was there in her manner to him that should give him courage? Could he dare to put it to the touch to win—or lose it all? To lose! That was what held him back.

Agatha was speaking.

"I am so sorry you waited for me," said she, lying unconsciously. Had not her heart beaten with delight because he had waited? "And you, too, who are so fond of dancing."

"Ah! fond! That is a strong expression. I am not a slave to it, you know."

"No." She paused. She seemed to study him for a moment. His face, young, strong, with a sort of defiance in it, as though he could and would conquer his world, fascinated her. It had always fascinated her from the first moment she saw it, now three months ago. It was not so much the kindliness of it as its strength that attracted her. She, too, could be strong. She felt in harmony with him from the very first. He was, as has been said, not strictly handsome, but his eyes were dark and expressive, and his mouth firm. The pose of his head was charming and his figure well-built and athletic. He was always in splendid spirits, and the milk of human kindness ran swiftly within his veins. Already the poor in his district began to adore him, for kind were his words and encouraging his smiles, and these counted with the sickly ones even more than the shillings that so often came out of a pocket where but few shilling lay. He had begun his fight with life unaided, save by the influence of old Reginald Greatorex, who had property in Rickton, and had got him appointed there, but he felt no fears. A natural buoyancy upheld him.

"Well," said he, smiling at her. He was wondering at the depth of her regard.

"I was thinking," said she, starting slightly, "that you could never be a slave to anything."

Dillwyn looked at her now.

"There you wrong me," said he. "I could be—I am—a slave!"

"It is difficult to believe," said she calmly.

"Why should it be difficult?"

"I don't know. But you don't lend yourself readily to the idea. You look as if you could never be easily swayed or governed."

"Not easily, perhaps. But—-" He put out his hand as if to clasp hers.

At this moment a sudden movement in the bushes behind her struck upon Agatha's ears. She sprang to her feet.