“Why, there is the woman who was at the opera last night,” exclaimed Morella, at last.  “How in the world did an outsider like that get here, I wonder?  She is quite pretty, close—­don’t you think so, Hector?  Oh, I forgot, you know her, of course; you talked to her last night, I remember.”

Hector did not answer; he was afraid to let himself speak.

Morella Winmarleigh was looking her best.  A tonged, laced, flounced best; and she was perfectly conscious of it, and pleased with herself and her attractions.

She meant to keep Lord Bracondale with her for the rest of the evening if possible, even if she had to descend to tricks scarcely flattering to her own vanity.

“Do let us go for a walk,” she said.  “I have not yet seen the flower decorations in the yellow salon, and I hear they are particularly fine.”

Hector by this time was beside himself at seeing Theodora converging with her partner towards the large doors at the other end of the ballroom.

“No,” he said.  “I am very sorry, but I am engaged for the next dance, and must go and hunt up my partner.  Where can I take you?”

Hector engaged for a dance?  An unknown thing, and of course untrue.  What could this mean?  Who would he dance with?  That colonial creature?  This must be looked into and stopped at once.

Miss Winmarleigh’s thin under-lip contracted, and a deeper red suffused her blooming cheeks.

“I really don’t know,” she said.  “I am quite lost, and I am afraid you can’t leave me until I find some one to take care of me.”  And she giggled girlishly.

That such a large cow of a woman should want protection of any sort seemed quite ridiculous to Hector—­maddeningly ridiculous at the present moment.  Theodora had disappeared, having seen him standing there with Morella Winmarleigh, who she had been told he was going to marry.

He was literally white with suppressed rage.  The Royalty had commandeered Anne, and among the dozens of people he knew there was not one in sight with whom he could plant Morella Winmarleigh; so he gave her his arm, and hurried along the way Theodora had disappeared.

“Are you going to Beechleigh for Whitsuntide?” Morella asked.  “I am, and I think we shall have a delightful party.”

Hector was not paying the least attention.  Theodora was completely out of sight now, and might be lost altogether, for all they were likely to overtake her among this crowd and the numberless exits and entrances.

“Beechleigh!” he mumbled, absently.  “Who lives there?  I don’t even know.  I am going home.”

“Why, Hector, of course you know!  The Fitzgeralds—­Sir Patrick and Lady Ada.  Every one does.”

Then it came to him.  These were Theodora’s uncle and aunt.  Was it possible she could be going there, too?  He recollected she had told him in Paris her father had written to this brother of his about her coming to London.  She might be going.  It was a chance, and he must ascertain at once.