“It won’t do, my dear boy,—­I assure you it won’t do!  You will break your heart over a dream, and make yourself miserable for nothing.  And you will break your sister’s heart as well; perhaps you haven’t thought of that?”

Denzil flung himself into the chair Sir Chetwynd had just vacated, and gave vent to a sigh that was almost a groan.

“Helen doesn’t know anything—­yet,” he said hoarsely.  “I know nothing myself; how can I?  I haven’t said a word to—­to her.  If I spoke all that was in my mind, I daresay she would laugh at me.  You are the only one who has guessed my secret.  You saw me last night when I—­when I accompanied her home.  But I never passed her palace gates,—­she wouldn’t let me.  She bade me ‘good-night’ outside; a servant admitted her, and she vanished through the portal like a witch or a ghost.  Sometimes I fancy she is a ghost.  She is so white, so light, so noiseless and so lovely!”

He turned his eyes away, ashamed of the emotion that moved him.  Dr. Maxwell Dean took off his academic cap and examined its interior as though he considered it remarkable.

“Yes,” he said slowly; “I have thought the same thing of her myself—­sometimes.”

Further conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the military band of the evening, which now crossed the “lounge,” each man carrying his instrument with him; and these were followed by several groups of people in fancy dress, all ready and eager for the ball.  Pierrots and Pierrettes, monks in drooping cowls, flower-girls, water-carriers, symbolic figures of “Night” and “Morning,” mingled with the counterfeit presentments of dead-and-gone kings and queens, began to flock together, laughing and talking on their way to the ball-room; and presently among them came a man whose superior height and build, combined with his eminently picturesque, half-savage type of beauty, caused every one to turn and watch him as he passed, and murmur whispering comments on the various qualities wherein he differed from themselves.  He was attired for the occasion as a Bedouin chief, and his fierce black eyes, and close-curling, dark hair, combined with the natural olive tint of his complexion, were well set off by the snowy folds of his turban and the whiteness of his entire costume, which was unrelieved by any color save at the waist, where a gleam of scarlet was shown in the sash which helped to fasten a murderous-looking dagger and other “correct” weapons of attack to his belt.  He entered the hall with a swift and singularly light step, and made straight for Denzil Murray.

“Ah! here you are!” he said, speaking English with a slight foreign accent, which was more agreeable to the ear than otherwise.  “But, my excellent boy, what magnificence!  A Medici costume!  Never say to me that you are not vain; you are as conscious of your good looks as any pretty woman.  Behold me, how simple and unobtrusive I am!”

He laughed, and Murray sprang up from the chair where he had been despondently reclining.