Not one dance for Max Beauregard—the
man she loved! who had a right to ask of
her at least so much as a kindly memory
of him; and a man whom any woman in
that room would feel proud to honor. But
she dared not trust herself; blindly, desper
ately, she took fatal refuge in conduct that
miserably wronged her.
"Thep are forming for the first set,” said
a voice near her.
She looked up. It was her partner—the
Marquis of Darnleigh.
Valerie bowed, and mechanically placed
her hand on her companion’s arm.
“Mr. and Lady Elinor Beauregard—
Colonel Beauregard,” rang out from the
doorway.
There was a flutter—a loud buzz of voices
—a forward rush and rustle.
Valerie paused, holding her breath.
For a minute everything seemed toswim
round tier, yet she did not stagger or cling
to her companion, and he did not see—for
iter head was drooping—how deadly white
she had grown.
T hen she looked up, and said, with a
smi’g:
“1 must go and speak to Colonel Beaure
gard. 1 have met him before, yon know.”
Even as she spoke, and moved—still
leaning on Lord Damleigh’s arm—toward
the entrance. Max Beauregard, scarce
twenty paces from her, turned and saw
her —the Fairy Queen: and all else besides,
people and scene, vanished, and left het
standing there alone, “queen lily and rose
in one,” in the glory of her loveliness, with
gleam of satin and silver, and fire of flash
ing jewels. Yet he had never had every
nerve v.ader more perfect command as he
went forward to meet her, and hand clasp
ed hand.
