those with whom I conversed.  It was growing very late; there were only two more waltzes before the final cotillon.  I was standing near the large open window of the ballroom, conversing with one of my recent partners, when a sudden inexplicable thrill shot through me from head to foot.  Instinctively I turned, and saw Cellini approaching.  He looked remarkably handsome, though his face was pale and somewhat wearied in expression.  He was laughing and conversing gaily with two ladies, one of whom was Mrs. Everard; and as he came towards me he bowed courteously, saying: 

“I am too much honoured by the kindness mademoiselle has shown in not discarding my poor flowers.”

“They are lovely,” I replied simply; “and I am very much obliged to you, signor, for sending them to me.”

“And how fresh they keep!” said Amy, burying her little nose in the fragrance of my fan; “yet they have been in the heat of the room all the evening.”

“They cannot perish while mademoiselle wears them,” said Cellini gallantly.  “Her breath is their life.”

“Bravo!” cried Amy, clapping her hands.  “That is very prettily said, isn’t it?”

I was silent.  I never could endure compliments.  They are seldom sincere, and it gives me no pleasure to be told lies, however prettily they may be worded.  Signor Cellini appeared to divine my thoughts, for he said in a lower tone: 

“Pardon me, mademoiselle; I see my observation displeased you; but there is more truth in it than you perhaps know.”

“Oh, say!” interrupted Mrs. Everard at this juncture; “I am so interested, signor, to hear you are engaged!  I suppose she is a dream of beauty?”

The hot colour rushed to my cheeks, and I bit my lips in confusion and inquietude.  What would he answer?  My anxiety was not of long duration.  Cellini smiled, and seemed in no way surprised.  He said quietly: 

“Who told you, madame, that I am engaged?”

“Why, she did, of course!” went on my friend, nodding towards me, regardless of an imploring look I cast at her.  “And said you were perfectly devoted!”

“She is quite right,” replied Cellini, with another of those rare sweet smiles of his; “and you also are right, madame, in your supposition:  my betrothed is a Dream of Beauty.”

I was infinitely relieved.  I had not, then, been guilty of a falsehood.  But the mystery remained:  how had I discovered the truth of the matter at all?  While I puzzled my mind over this question, the other lady who had accompanied Mrs. Everard spoke.  She was an Austrian of brilliant position and attainments.

“You quite interest me, signor!” she said.  “Is your fair fiancee here to-night?”

“No, madame,” replied Cellini; “she is not in this country.”

“What a pity!” exclaimed Amy.  “I want to see her real bad.  Don’t you?” she asked, turning to me.

I raised my eyes and met the dark clear ones of the artist fixed full upon me.