whole night long, set brain and heart reeling in the mad tarantella of
love.

It was over at last. The gray and dismal dawn of the November morning
stole chilly through the curtained casements. A half-blown rose from
Miss Hunsden's bouquet bloomed in Sir Everard's button-hole, and it was
Sir Everard's blissful privilege to fold Miss Hunsden's furred mantle
around those pearly shoulders.

The bleak morning breeze blew her perfumed hair across his eyes, as she
leaned on his arm and he handed her into the carriage.

"We shall expect to see you at Hunsden Hall," the Indian officer said,
heartily. "Your father's son, Sir Everard, will ever be a most welcome
guest."

"Yes," said Harrie, coquettishly; "come and inquire how my health is
after dancing all night. Etiquette demands that much, and I'm a great
stickler for etiquette."

"Sir Everard would never have discovered it, I am certain, my dear, if
you had not told him."

"A thousand thanks! I shall only be too delighted to avail myself of
both invitations."

Sir Everard went home to Kingsland Court as he never had gone home
before. The whole world was _couleur de rose_--the bleak November
morning and the desolate high-road--sweeter, brighter than the Elysian
Fields.