The ball was at its height. Even the coldest and most _blasé_ of the
guests had warmed up and caught fire at the blaze of excitement and
enjoyment. The ball-room was dazzling in the beauty of its decorations
and the soft effulgence of the shaded electric light, in which the
magnificent jewels of the titled and wealthy women seemed to glow with
a subdued and chastened fire. A dance was in progress, and Stafford, as
he stood by the doorway and looked mechanically and dully at the
whirling crowd, the kaleidoscope of colour formed by the rich dresses,
the fluttering fans, and the dashes of black represented by the men's
clothes, thought vaguely that he had never seen anything more
magnificent, more elegant of wealth and success. But through it all,
weird and ghost-like shone Ida's girlish face, with its love-lit eyes
and sweetly curving lips.

He looked round, and presently he saw Maude Falconer in her strange and
striking dress. She was dancing with Lord Fitzharford. There was not a
touch of colour in her face, her lips were pensive, her lids lowered;
she looked like an exquisite statue, exquisitely clothed, moving with
the exquisite poetry of motion, but quite devoid of feeling. Suddenly,
as if she felt his presence, she raised her eyes and looked at him. A
light shot into them, glowed for a moment, her lips curved with the
faintest of smiles, and a warm tint stole to her face.