"Lady Diana!" she said, "here is Nance! You told me to bring her to you before the first dance."

At her tone, so very soft and pleading, Lady Diana turned; and a smile--the first real smile she had given her since the episode of two nights ago--broke over her face.

"Yes," she said, with sudden geniality--"yes; that is quite right!

Leave her with me; I will find her the nicest men." She paused, and her eyes travelled kindly from Clodagh's face to her black dress.

"And you? Won't you have some partners?" Her glance swept the little group about her. "Walter, Mrs. Milbanke won't dance, but----"

At the moment that she spoke, Serracauld's light voice sounded from behind them, and his slim figure emerged from the surrounding crowd.

"Ah, here you are, Mrs. Milbanke! I have a strong suspicion that I am only just in time. Where shall we go? Into the music-room? Or out into the garden?" Supremely ignoring the rest of the group, he offered Clodagh his arm and led her out into the throng, at the moment that the swaying notes of the first waltz floated down from the musicians'

gallery.

With a faint disappointment, warring with a faint elation, Clodagh suffered him to guide her down the long ballroom. Life seemed suddenly a brighter thing than it had seemed for days. Nance was with her; Lady Diana had smiled on her again; and only a moment ago she had met Gore's eyes in almost the first direct glance they had exchanged since his coming to Tuffnell. She lifted her head in response to a sudden excited happiness, as the dancers flashed past her over the polished floor, and the deep, long notes of the violins vibrated on the air.

Unconsciously her fingers tightened on Serracauld's arm; and in instant response, he paused.

"Can you resist?" he said.

She looked up at him. The colour had rushed into her face with the emotion of the moment. An inordinate longing to be young--to enjoy--to be as the crowd about her--swept her mind imperiously.

A peculiar look crossed Serracauld's eyes.

"Just for two minutes?" he whispered. "No one will see you in the first crush. There is no waltz like this!" Almost before she was aware of it, he had slipped his arm round her waist.

For an instant a gleam of surprise--of alarm--showed in her face; then the long, persuasive notes of the stringed instruments dropped to a lower, more enticing key. She yielded to the pressure of his arm, and the two glided in amongst the dancers.

They made the half-circuit of the room, escaping the observation of the house party at its further end; and as they reached the door, Clodagh pressed her hand detainingly on Serracauld's arm.

He paused.

"Tired?" he asked, looking down into her flushed face and brilliant eyes.

She shook her head faintly. Her heart was still beating too fast--her brain still felt too elated--to notice the ardour and the intentness of his glance.

"We must stop," she said softly. "You know, even the two minutes were stolen."

He slowly withdrew his arm from her waist, but still kept his eyes on hers.

"I suppose all the things in life worth having are come by dishonestly," he said lightly. Then, in a lower tone, he added, "Do you know that you dance--gloriously?"

Clodagh made no answer. Her mind was more occupied with the dance just gone through than with the partner who had shared it. And for the moment Serracauld was content with her silence.

Leaving the ballroom, they pa.s.sed together down a long corridor that ended in a short flight of stairs, leading to the card-room.

At the foot of these stairs he paused, struck by a new idea.

"Suppose we look into the card-room?" he said. "I believe it will be deserted at this early hour."

Clodagh a.s.sented.

"If you like," she said. "It _would_ be rather nice to find a quiet spot." And, leading the way with careless unconcern, she began to mount the stairs.

The door of the card-room was open. The baize-covered tables were arranged for play; but only one small, green-shaded lamp had been lighted; and the window was uncurtained and open to the still summer night.

She paused on the threshold, and Serracauld stepped quickly to her side.

"It might almost have been arranged for us," he said. "Won't you go in?"

She waited for a moment longer; then she walked slowly forward and halted beside one of the tables.

Very quietly her companion closed the door, and, crossing the room softly, paused close behind her.

"Do you know that you dance--gloriously?" he said again. "But I always knew you would. A waltz with you is one of the things I promised myself a long time ago."

As he spoke, she was conscious that his shoulder almost brushed hers.

With a faintly uneasy movement she raised her head.

"What do you mean?" she asked, turning and meeting his eyes.

In the dim light of the room there was something curious, new, and alarming in the glance she encountered. He was standing exceedingly near; his face looked very pale; the pupils of his eyes were dilated, giving them a peculiar, unfamiliar look.

Embarra.s.sed, and yet doubtful that her embarra.s.sment was justified, she turned away, and, nervously taking a pack of cards from the table, began to pa.s.s them through her fingers.

"I don't know what you mean," she said again. "I don't understand."

Quite suddenly Serracauld laughed; and, pa.s.sing his arms over hers, caught her hands, so that the cards fluttered to the table.

"Nonsense!" he said in a sharp, whispering voice--"nonsense! The prettiest woman of the season not understand!"

He laughed again, and with a swift movement freed her hands; and, clasping her suddenly and closely, forced her head backwards and bent his face to hers.

The action was not so much a kiss, as a vehement, almost painful pressure of his lips upon her mouth--something that stung her to resentment rather than to fear.

For one instant she remained pa.s.sive; the next, she had freed herself with the muscular activity that had always belonged to her slight, supple frame.

As she drew away from him, she was trembling and her face was white; but there was a look he had never imagined in her eyes and on her lips.

For one moment it seemed that she meant to speak; and then her lips closed. She turned away from him and walked out of the room without a word.

CHAPTER XII

Hardly conscious of her movements, Clodagh left the card-room and pa.s.sed down the corridor.

Her only tangible sensations were anger and self-contempt. The thought that Serracauld, who had seemed less than nothing in the scheme of her life--Serracauld, with whom she had laughed and jested and flirted because he was a boy and of no account--should have treated her lightly; should have presumed to kiss her, to seize her violently in his arms, was something shameful and intolerable. The simplicity of her upbringing--the uncontaminated childhood that her country had given her--rose to confront her in this newest crisis. Vain, frivolous, foolish she might be, but beneath the vanity, the frivolity, the folly, she was--and always had been--good, in the primitive, fundamental sense of the word.