The lights are burning low in the conservatory, soft perfumes from the many flowers fill the air.  From beyond—­somewhere—­(there is a delicious drowsy uncertainty about the where)—­comes the sound of music, soft, rhythmical, and sweet.  Perhaps it is from one of the rooms outside—­dimly seen through the green foliage—­where the lights are more brilliant, and forms are moving.  But just in here there is no music save the tinkling drip, drip of the little fountain that plays idly amongst the ferns.

Lady Baring is at home to-night, and in the big, bare rooms outside dancing is going on, and in the smaller rooms, tiny tragedies and comedies are being enacted by amateurs, who, oh, wondrous tale! do know their parts and speak them, albeit no stage “proper” has been prepared for them.  Perhaps that is why stage-fright is not for them—­a stage as big as “all the world” leaves actors very free.

But in here—­here, with the dainty flowers and dripping fountains, there is surely no thought of comedy or tragedy.  Only a little girl gowned all in white, with snowy arms and neck, and diamonds glittering in the soft masses of her waving hair.  A happy little girl, to judge by the soft smile upon her lovely lips, and the gleam in her dark eyes.  Leaning back in her seat in the dim, cool recesses of the conservatory, amongst the flowers and the greeneries, she looks like a little nymph in love with the silence and the sense of rest that the hour holds.

It is broken, however.

“I am so sorry you are not dancing,” says her companion, leaning towards her.  His regret is evidently genuine, indeed; to Hardinge the evening is an ill-spent one that precludes his dancing with Perpetua Wynter.

“Yes?” she looks up at him from her low lounge amongst the palms.  “Well, so am I, do you know!” telling the truth openly, yet with an evident sense of shame.  “But I don’t dance now, because—­it is selfish, isn’t it?—­because I should be so unhappy afterwards if I did!"

“A perfect reason,” says Hardinge very earnestly.  He is still leaning towards her, his elbows on his knees, his eyes on hers.  It is an intent gaze that seldom wanders, and in truth why should it?  Where is any other thing as good to look at as this small, fair creature, with the eyes, and the hair, and the lips that belong to her?

He has taken possession of her fan, and gently, lovingly, as though indeed it is part of her, is holding it, raising it sometimes to sweep the feathers of it across his lips.

“Do you think so?” says she, as if a little puzzled.  “Well, I confess I don’t like the moments when I hate myself.  We all hate ourselves sometimes, don’t we?” looking at him as if doubtfully, “or is it only I myself, who——­”

“Oh, no!” says Hardinge. "All! All of us detest ourselves now and again, or at least we think we do.  It comes to the same thing, but you—­you have no cause.”

“I should have if I danced,” says she, “and I couldn’t bear the after reproach, so I don’t do it.”