This is too much for her. Drawing herself up to her full height,
Florence casts a glance of anger and defiance in his direction, and,
sweeping past him in her most imperious fashion, appears no more that
night.

It is an early party, all things considered, and Dora Talbot, going to
her room about two o'clock, stops before Florence's door and knocks
softly thereon.

"Come in," calls Florence gently.

"I have just stopped for a moment to express the hope that you are not
ill, dearest," says smooth-tongued Dora, advancing toward her. "How
early you left us! I shouldn't have known how early only that Mr.
Dynecourt told me. Are you sure you are not ill?"

"Not in the least, only a little fatigued," replied Florence calmly.

"Ah, no wonder, with your exertions before the dancing commenced, and
your unqualified success! You reigned over everybody, darling. Nobody
could hope even to divide the honors of the evening with you. Your
acting was simply superb."

"Thank you," says Florence, who is not in bed, but is sitting in a chair
drawn near the window, through which the moonbeams are flinging their
pale rays. She is clad in a clinging white dressing-gown that makes her
beauty saint-like, and has all her long hair falling loosely round her
shoulders.