The perfume of countless roses, the music of the finest band in Europe, floated through the famous white ballroom of Devenham House. Electric lights sparkled from the ceiling, through the pillared way the ceaseless splashing of water from the fountains in the winter garden seemed like a soft undernote to the murmur of voices, the musical peals of laughter, the swirl of skirts, and the rhythm of flying feet.
Penelope stood upon the edge of the ballroom, her hand resting still upon her partner's arm. She wore a dress of dull rose-color, a soft, clinging silk, which floated about her as she danced, a creation of Paquin's, daring but delightful. Her eyes were very full and soft. She was looking her best, and knew it.
Nevertheless, she was just at the moment, a little DISTRAIT. She was watching the brilliant scene with a certain air of abstraction, as though her interest in it was, after all, an impersonal thing.
"Jolly well every one looks tonight," her partner, who was Sir Charles, remarked. "All the women seem to be wearing smart frocks, and some of those foreign uniforms are gorgeous.""Even the Prince," Penelope said thoughtfully, "must find some reflection of the philosophy of his own country in such a scene as this. For the last fortnight we have been surfeited with horrors. We have had to go through all sorts of nameless things,"she added, shivering slightly, "and tonight we dance at Devenham House. We dance, and drink champagne, and marvel at the flowers, as though we had not a care in the world, as though life moved always to music."Sir Charles frowned a little.
"The Prince again!" he said, half protesting. "He seems to be a great deal in your thoughts lately, Penelope.""Why not?" she answered. "It is something to meet a person whom one is able to dislike. Nowadays the whole world is so amiable.""I wonder how much you really do dislike him," he said.
She looked at him with a mysterious smile.
"Sometimes," she murmured softly, "I wonder that myself.""Leaving the Prince out of the question," he continued, "what you say is true enough. Only a few days ago, you had to attend that awful inquest, and the last time I saw dear old ****y Vanderpole, he was looking forward to this very dance.""It seems callous of us to have come," Penelope declared. "And yet, if we hadn't, what difference would it have made? Every one else would have been here. Our absence would never have been noticed, and we should have sat at home and had the blues. But all the same, life is cruel.""Can't say I find much to grumble at myself," Sir Charles said cheerfully. "I'm frightfully sorry about poor old ****y, of course, and every other decent fellow who doesn't get his show.
But, after all, it's no good being morbid. Sackcloth and ashes benefit no one. Shall we have another turn?""Not yet," Penelope replied. "Wait till the crowd thins a little.
Tell me what you have been doing today?"
"Pretty strenuous time," Sir Charles remarked. "Up at nine, played golf at Ranelagh all morning, lunched down there, back to my rooms and changed, called on my tailor, went round to the club, had one game of billiards and four rubbers of bridge.""Is that all?" Penelope asked.
The faint sarca** which lurked beneath her question passed unnoticed. Sir Charles smiled good-humoredly.
"Not quite," he answered. "I dined at the Carlton with Bellairs and some men from Woolwich and we had a box at the Empire to see the new ballet. Jolly good it was, too. Will you come one night, if I get up a party?""Oh, perhaps!" she answered. "Come and dance."They passed into the great ballroom, the finest in London, brilliant with its magnificent decorations of real flowers, its crowd of uniformed men and beautiful women, its soft yet ever-present throbbing of wonderful music. At the further end of the room, on a slightly raised dais, still receiving her guests, stood the Duchess of Devenham. Penelope gave a little start as they saw who was bowing over her hand.
"The Prince!" she exclaimed.
Sir Charles whispered something a little under his breath.
"I wonder," she remarked with apparent irrelevance, "whether he dances.""Shall I go and find out for you?" Sir Charles asked.
She had suddenly grown absent. She had the air of scarcely hearing what he said.
"Let us stop," she said. "I am out of breath."He led her toward the winter garden. They sat by a fountain, listening to the cool play of the water.
"Penelope," Somerfield said a little awkwardly, "I don't want to presume, you know, nor to have you think that I am foolishly jealous, but you have changed towards me the last few weeks, haven't you?""The last few weeks," she answered, "have been enough to change me toward any one. All the same, I wasn't conscious of anything particular so far as you are concerned.""I always thought," he continued after a moment's hesitation, "that there was so much prejudice in your country against--against all Asiatic races."She looked at him steadfastly for a minute.
"So there is," she answered. "What of it?"
"Nothing, except that it is a prejudice which you do not seem to share," he remarked.
"In a way I do share it," she declared, "but there are exceptions, sometimes very wonderful exceptions.""Prince Maiyo, for instance," he said bitterly. "Yet a fortnight ago I could have sworn that you hated him.""I think that I do hate him," Penelope affirmed. "I try to. Iwant to. I honestly believe that he deserves my hatred. I have more reason for feeling this way than you know of, Sir Charles.""If he has dared--" Somerfield began.
