him, whispered her hurt pride, recalling the courteous indifference
which it was his custom to mete out to her. But dared she do this
thing?

She took up the invitation again and read it. It was to be a fancy-dress
ball, and all were to wear masks. The waltz which she had learned to
dance from Lady Blythebury herself and which was only just coming into
vogue in England, was to be one of the greatest features of the evening.
There would be no foolish formality, Lady Blythebury had assured her.
The masks would preclude that. Altogether the whole entertainment
promised to be of so entrancing a nature that she had permitted herself
to look forward to it with considerable pleasure. But she might have
guessed that Sir Roland would refuse to go, she reflected, as she sat in
her dainty room with the invitation before her. Did he ever attend any
function that was not so stiff and dull that she invariably pined to
depart from the moment of arrival?

Again she read the invitation, recalling Lady Blythebury's gay words
when last they had talked the matter over.

"If only Una could come without the lion for once!" she had said.

And she herself had almost echoed the wish. Sir Roland always spoilt
everything.

Well!--She took up her pen. She supposed she must refuse. A moment it
hovered above the paper. Then, very slowly, it descended and began to
write.

* * *