lover’s breast, the strong pulsation of his heart sounding in her ear, like the rhythmical beat of the basses yonder in Waldteufel’s last waltz?  Was there still the uncertainty as to the denouement which marks the third act of a good play? or was there the dread foreboding, the sense of impending doom which should stir the spectators with pity and terror as the fourth act hurries to its passionate close?  Who could tell?  She had been full of life and energy to-day on board the yacht during the racing, in which she seemed to take an ardent interest.  The Cayman had followed the racers for three hours through a freshening sea, much to Lady Kirkbank’s disgust, and Lesbia had been the soul of the party.  The same yesterday.  The yacht had only got back to Cowes in time for the ball, and all had been hurry and excitement while the ladies dressed and crossed to the club, the spray dashing over their opera mantles, poor Lady Kirkbank’s complexion yellow with mal de mer, in spite of a double coating of Blanc de Fedora, the last fashionable cosmetic.

To-night Lesbia was curiously silent, depressed even, as it seemed to those who were interested in observing her; and all the world is interested in a famous beauty.  She was very pale, even her lips were colourless, and the large violet eyes and firmly pencilled brows alone gave colour to her face.  She looked like a marble statue, the eyes and eyebrows accentuated with touches of colour.  Those lovely eyes had a heavy look, as of trouble, weariness; nay, absolute distress.

Never had she looked less brilliant than to-night; never had she looked more beautiful.  It was the loveliness of a newly-awakened soul.  The wonderful Pandora-casket of life, with its infinite evil, its little good, had given up its secret.  She knew what passionate love really means.  She knew what such love mostly means—­self-sacrifice, surrender of the world’s wealth, severance from friends, the breaking of all old ties.  To love as she loved means the crossing of a river more fatal than the Rubicon, the casting of a die more desperate than that which Caesar flung upon the board when he took up arms against the Republic.

The river was not yet crossed, but her feet were on the margin, wet with the ripple of the stream.  The fatal die was not yet cast, but the dice-box was in her hand ready for the throw.  Lesbia and Montesma danced together—­not too often, three waltzes out of sixteen—­but when they were so waltzing they were the cynosure of the room.  That betting of which Maulevrier had heard was rife to-night, and the odds upon the Cuban had gone up.  It was nine to four now that those two would be over the border before the week was out.

Mr. Smithson was not neglectful of his affianced.  He took her into the supper-room, where she drank some Moselle cup, but ate nothing.  He sat out three or four waltzes with her on the lawn, listening to the murmer of the sea, and talking very little.