companion; "but you are the most enchanting
of enigmas."

"Again!" she said, and held up an ungloved
hand, on which jewels shone in the dim, mixed
light.

"Yes, again and again!" he replied, and he
drew nearer to her, and spoke eagerly, earnestly,
in low fervent tones. She did not shrink from
him; she listened, with her arms wrapped in her
lace mantle, resting upon the balcony, the long
black eyelashes shading her eyes, and the head,
with the scarlet flower decking it, bent— not
in timidity, but in attentive thought. The man
leaned with his back against the balcony, and
his lace turned partly towards her, partly
towards the open windows, through which the
light was shining. The lady listened, but rarely
uttered a word. It was a story, a narrative of
some kind which her companion was telling, and
it evidently interested her.

They were alone. The rooms within filled,
and emptied, and filled again, and people
rambled about them, went out upon the terrace and
into the gardens; but no one intruded upon the
tête-à-tête upon the balcony.

A momentary pause in the earnest, passionate
flow of her companion's speech caused the lady
to change her position and look up at him.
"What is it?" she said.

"Nothing. Dallas passed by one of the
windows just now, and I thought he might have
seen me. He evidently did not, for he's just
the blundering fool to have come out here to us
if he had. It never would occur to him that he
could be in any one's way."

There was an exasperation in his tone which
surprised the lady. But she said, calmly, " I
told you I thought him a booby." She resumed
her former position, and as she did so the
scarlet flower fell from her hair over the parapet.
Her companion did not notice the accident,
owing to his position. She leaned a little more
forward to see where the flower had fallen. A
lady, who had, no doubt, been passing along
the terrace under the balcony at the moment,
had picked it up. Mrs. P. Ireton Bembridge
saw the blossom with the deep red colour
in the lady's hand as she walked rapidly
away, and was lost to sight at the end of the
terrace.

A little more time passed, and the American
lady and her companion left the balcony,
passed through the central hall, and reached
the grand entrance of the Kursaal. A close
carriage was in waiting, into which the gentleman
handed her.

"Where is the flower you wore in your hair
to-night?" he said, as he lingered, holding the
carriage door in his hand; "have you taken it
out? Are you going to give it to me?"
Exciting boldness was in his voice, and his keen
dark eyes were aflame.

"Impertinent! I lost it; it fell over the
balcony while you were talking—talking nonsense,
I fancy."

"I will find it when you are gone. I may????
No, I will keep it." '

"Some one has been too quick for you," she
said, with a mischievous laugh. " I saw some
one pick it up and walk off with it, very quickly
too."

"What? and you????"

"Don't be foolish," she interrupted him;
"shut the door, please, I'm cold. I want to
pull the glass up— I want to get home. There,
good night. Pooh, are you a booby also? It
was only a woman!"

A brilliant light was given by the lamps in
the portico, and it shone on her face as she
leaned a moment from the carriage window and
looked full at him, a marvellous smile on her
curved lips and in her black eyes. Then the
carriage was gone, and he was standing like a
man in a dream.

"Has Mrs. Routh come in?" George had
asked, anxiously, of the English servant at
Routh's lodgings, half an hour before.

"Yes, sir; but she has gone to her room, and
she told me to give you this."

It was a note, written hastily in pencil, on a
card:

"I felt so ill, after you left me to get me the
lemonade, that I was afraid to wait for your
return, and came home at once. Pray forgive
me. I know you will come here first, or I
would send to your own house.

"H. R."

"Tell Mrs. Routh I hope to see her to-morrow,"
said George, "and to find her better."
Then he walked slowly towards his mother's
house, thinking as he went of Clare Carruthers,
of the Sycamores, and of how still, and solemn,
and stately that noble avenue of beeches in
which he saw her first was then doubtless
looking in the moonlight; thinking the harmless
thoughts of a young man whom love, the
purifier, has come to save. A carriage passing
him with bright lamps, and a swift vision of
sheeny blue seen for an instant, reminded him
of Mrs. P. Ireton Bembridge, and turned his
thoughts to the topic of his uncle's anxiety.
When he reached home, he found Mr. Felton
alone; and told him at once what had
passed.

"You are quite correct in supposing that I
don't particularly like this woman, George,"
said Mr. Felton, after they had talked for some
time, "and that I should prefer any other channel
of intelligence. But we must take what we
can get, and it is a great relief to get any. It
is quite evident there's nothing wrong with,
him. I don't allude to his conduct," said Mr.
Felton, with a sigh. " I mean as to his safety.
I shall call on her to-morrow."

George bade his uncle good night, and was
going to his own room, when a thought struck
him, and he returned.

"It has just occurred to me, uncle," he said,
"that Mrs. Bembridge may have a likeness of
Arthur. From the account you give of her, I
fancy she is likely to possess such trophies.