The Marquis is teaching it to grandmamma out of a book, but I do not care for cards—­and it seemed to me such a dull way to spend a ball.  I told him so.

“I like this better,” he said, quite simply, “but then at most balls one does not meet a dainty marquise out of the eighteenth century.  Let me see, was there not a story of the great Dumas about a demoiselle d’honneur of Marie Antoinette—­I don’t remember her name or her history, but she became the Comtesse de Charny.  Now I shall think of you by that name—­the Comtesse de Charny.  Tell me, Comtesse, does it not shock your senses, our modern worship of that excellent, useful, comfortable fellow, the Golden Calf?”

“I don’t know anything at all about him—­who is he?” I said.

“Oh, he is a Jew, or a Turk, or an African millionaire—­any one with a hundred thousand a year.”

I thought of Augustus—­“calf” seemed just the word for him.

I laughed.

“We have a beautiful example of one here to-night,” he continued; “indeed you were dancing with him—­the bear who mauled Lady Tilchester.  How did you get to know such a person?”

My heart gave a bound.

“I am engaged to Mr. Gurrage,” I said, in a half voice, but raising my head.

Oh, the surprise and—­and disgust in his eyes!  Then, I don’t know what he saw in my face, I tried only to look calm and indifferent, but the contempt went out of his manner, his eyes softened, and he put out his hand and touched my fingers very gently.

“Oh, you poor little white Comtesse!” he said.

I ought to have been furious.  Pity, as a rule, angers me so that it would render me capable of being torn to pieces by lions without flinching; but I am ashamed—­oh! so ashamed—­to say that tears sprang up into my eyes—­tears!  Mercifully, grandmamma will never know.

“Come,” I said, and we rose and walked down the corridor.  There we met Augustus, with a face like thunder.  He had been looking everywhere for me, he said.  It appeared we had been sitting out for two dances.

“You promised me this one more turn,” said the tall man, quite unabashed; “they are playing a charming valse.”

“She is engaged to me,” growled Augustus.

“No, I am not,” I said, smiling into his angry face; “I am quite my own mistress as regards whom I dance with.  I will come back when it is finished and you shall have the next one,” and I walked off with my friend of the knife.

Whether my fiance stood there and swore or not I do not know; I did not look back.  We did not speak a word until the dance was finished, my partner and I. Then he said: 

“Thank you, little lady.  We have, at all events, snatched some few good moments out of this evening.  Now, I suppose, we must return to your—­bear.”

Augustus was standing by the buffet drinking champagne when we caught sight of him.  We stepped for a moment out of his view behind some palms.