While the vibrant strings hummed and sang through the roses, and the couples drifted on tireless and content, or blissfully “sat out” dances on the stairway, Katharine Fargo held her stately court no less gaily for the stealthy doubt that was creeping over her spirit. She had been so certain of what would happen that evening that when her father (between cigars on the porch with Judge Chalmers and Doctor Southall) had searched her out under a flag-of-truce, she had sent him to the right-about, laughingly declining to depart before royalty. But number followed number, and the knight in purple and gold had not paused again before her. Now the scarlet cloak no longer flaunted among the dancers, and the white satin gown and sparkling coronal had disappeared. The end of the next “round-dance” found her subsiding into the flower-banked alcove suddenly distrait amid her escort’s sallies. It was at this moment that she saw, entering the corridor from the garden, the missing couple.

It was not the faint flush on Shirley’s cheek—that was not deep—nor was it his nearness to her, though they stood closely, as lovers might. But there was in both their faces a something that resurgent conventionality had not had time to cover—a trembling reflection of that “light that never was, on sea or land”—which was like a death-stab to what lay far deeper than Katharine’s heart, her pride. She drew swiftly back, dismayed at the sudden verification, and for an instant her whole body chilled.

A craving for a glass of water has served its purpose a thousand times; as her cavalier solicitously departed to fetch the cooling draught, she rose, and carelessly humming the refrain the music had just left off, sauntered lightly out by another door to the open air. A swift glance about her showed her she was unobserved and she stepped down to the grass and along the winding path to a bench at some distance in the shrubbery. Here the smiling mask slipped from her face and with a shiver she dropped her hot face in her hands.

There were no tears. The wave that was welling over her was one of bitter humiliation. She had shot her bolt and missed—she, Katharine Fargo! For three years she had held John Valiant, romantically speaking, in the hollow of her shapely hand. Now she had all but thrown herself at his feet—and he had turned away to this flame-haired, vivid girl whom he had not known as many months! The rankling barb was dipped in no poison of unrequited love. Hers was the anger of the self-willed and intensely proud woman denied her dearest wish, and crossed and flouted for the first time in her pampered exquisite life.

Heavy footfalls all at once approached her—two men were coming from the house. There was the spitting crackle of a match, and as she peered out, its red flare lighted the massive face and floating hair of Major Bristow. His companion’s face was in the shadow. She waited, thinking they would pass; but to her annoyance, when she looked again, they had seated themselves on a bench a few paces away.

To be found mooning in the shrubbery like a schoolgirl did not please her, but it seemed there was no recourse, and she had half arisen, when the major’s gruff-voiced companion spoke a name that caused her to sit down abruptly. To do Katharine justice, it did not occur to her at the moment that she was eavesdropping. And such was the significance of the sentences she heard, and such their bearing on the turmoil of her mind, that a woman of more sensitive fiber might have lingered.

“Bristow, Shirley’s a magnificent girl.”

“Finest in seven counties,” agreed the major’s bass.

“Whom do you reckon she’ll choose to marry?”

“Chilly Lusk, of course. The boy’s been in love with her since they were in bibs. And he comes as near being fit for her as anybody.”

“Humph!” said the other sardonically. “No man I ever saw was half good enough for a good woman. But good women marry just the same. It isn’t Lusk. I used to think it would be, but I’ve got a pair of eyes in my head, if you haven’t. It’s young Valiant.”

The pearl fan twisted in Katharine’s fingers. What she had guessed was an open secret, then!

The major made an exclamation that had the effect of coming after a jaw-dropped silence. “I—I never thought of that!”

The other resumed slowly, somewhat bitterly, it seemed to the girl listening. “If her mother was in love with Sassoon—”

Katharine’s heart beat fast and then stood still. Sassoon! That was the name of the man Valiant’s father had killed in that old duel of which Judge Chalmers had told! “If her mother”—Shirley Dandridge’s mother—“was in love with Sassoon!” Why—

“Was she?”

The major’s query held a sharpness that seemed almost appeal. She was conscious that the other had faced about abruptly.

“I’ve always believed so, certainly. If she had loved Valiant, would she have thrown him over merely because he broke his promise not to be a party to a quarrel?”

“You think not?” said the major huskily.

“Not under the circumstances. Valiant was forced into it. No gentleman, at that day, could have declined the meeting. He could have explained it to Judith’s satisfaction—a woman doesn’t need much evidence to justify the man she’s in love with. He must have written her—he couldn’t have gone away without that—and if she had loved him, she would have called him back.”

The major made no answer. Katharine saw a cigar fall unheeded upon the grass, where it lay glowing like a panther’s eye.

The other had risen now, his stooped figure bulking in the moonlight. His voice sounded harsh and strained: “I loved Beauty Valiant,” he said, “and his son is his son to me—but I have to think of Judith, too. She fainted, Bristow, when she saw him—Shirley told me about it. Her mother has made her think it was the scent of the roses! He’s his father’s living image, and he’s brought the past back with him. Every sound of his voice, every sight of his face, will be a separate stab! Oh, his mere presence will be enough for Judith to bear. But with her heart in the grave with Sassoon, what would love between Shirley and young Valiant mean to her? Think of it!”

He broke off, and there was a blank of silence, in which he turned with almost a sigh. Then Katharine saw him reach the bench with a single stride and drop his hand on the bowed shoulder.

“Bristow!” he said bruskly. “You’re ill! This confounded philandering at your time of life—”

The major’s face looked ashy pale, but he got up with a laugh. “Not I,” he said; “I was never better in my life! We’ve had our mouthful of air. Come on back to the house.”

“Not much!” grunted the other. “I’m going where we both ought to have been hours ago.” He threw away his cigar and stalked down the path into the darkness.

The major stood looking after him till he had disappeared, then suddenly dropped on the bench and covered his face. Something like a groan burst from him.

“My God!” he said, and his voice came to Katharine with a quaver of age and suffering—very different from the jovial accents of the ballroom—“if I were only sure it was Sassoon!”

Presently he rose, and went slowly toward the lighted doorway.