Doris has been quite distrait ever since. The child adores her uncle—you know, of course, that she is his niece—the daughter of my sister. Gregory was her father's brother—we are almost related."

    Her companion glanced across to the subject of their remarks. The girl sat in the front of the box, slim and elegant, her hands clasped loosely in her lap. She was watching the brilliant scene with a certain air of detachment, as if thinking of other things. Her usual lightness and gay banter seemed for the moment to have deserted her, leaving a soft brooding wistfulness that was strangely appealing.

    The Count looked at her.

    "She is very beautiful," he murmured under his breath.

    Something in his voice caught Lady Dinsmore's attention. She eyed him keenly.

    The Count met her look frankly.

    "Is—is she engaged to her young friend?" he asked quietly. "Believe me, it is not vulgar curiosity which prompts the question. I—I am—interested." His voice was as composed as ever.

    Lady Dinsmore averted her gaze hurriedly and thought with lightning rapidity.

    "I have not her confidence," she replied at length, in a low tone; "she is a wise young woman and keeps her own counsel." She appeared to hesitate. "She dislikes you," she said. "I am sorry to wound you, but it is no secret."

    Count Poltavo nodded. "I know," he said, simply. "Will you be my good friend and tell me why?"

    Lady Dinsmore smiled. "I will do better than that," she said kindly. "I will be your very good friend and give you a chance to ask her why. Frank,"—she bent forward and tapped the young man upon the shoulder with her fan,—"will you come over here and tell me what your editor means?"

    The Count resigned his seat courteously, and took the vacant place beside the girl. A silence fell between them, which presently the man broke.

    "Miss Gray," he began, seriously, "your aunt kindly gave me this opportunity to ask you a question. Have I your permission also?"

    The girl arched her eyebrows. Her lip curled ever so slightly.

    "A question to which you and my Aunt Patricia could find no answer between you! It must be subtle indeed! How can I hope to succeed?"

    He ignored her sarcasm. "Because it concerns yourself."

    "Ah!" She drew herself up and regarded him with sparkling eyes. One small foot began to tap the floor ominously. Then she broke into a vexed little laugh.

    "I am no match for you with the foils, Count. I admit it freely. I should have learned by this time that you never say what you mean, or mean what you say."

    "Forgive me, Miss Gray, if I say that you mistake me utterly. I mean always what I say—most of all to you. But to say all that I mean—to put into speech all that one hopes or dreams—or dares,"—his voice dropped to a whisper—"to turn oneself inside out like an empty pocket to the gaze of the multitude—that is—imbecile." He threw out his hands with an expressive gesture.

    "But to speak concretely—I have unhappily offended you, Miss Gray. Something I have done, or left undone—or my unfortunate personality does not engage your interest. Is it not true?"

    There was no mistaking his sincerity now.

    But the girl still held aloof, her blue eyes cool and watchful. For the moment, her face, in its young hardness, bore a curious resemblance to her uncle's.

    "Is that your question?" she demanded.

    The Count bowed silently.

    "Then I will tell you!" She spoke in a low voice surcharged with emotion. "I will give you candour for candour, and make an end of all this make-believe."

    "That," he murmured, "is what I most desire."

    Doris continued, heedless of the interruption.