comes in very useful for fancy balls such as the one we are going
to have tonight, when no particular period is observed in costume.
Isn't it about time we all got ready?"

"Upon my life, I think it is!" agreed Lord Fulkeward. "I am coming
out as a Neapolitan fisherman! I don't believe Neapolitan
fishermen ever really dress in the way I'm going to make up, but
it's the accepted stage-type, don'cher know."

"Ah! I daresay you will look very well in it," murmured Ross
Courtney, vaguely. "Hullo! here comes Denzil Murray!"

They all turned instinctively to watch the entrance of a handsome
young man, attired in the picturesque garb worn by Florentine
nobles during the prosperous reign of the Medicis. It was a
costume admirably adapted to the wearer, who, being grave and
almost stern of feature, needed the brightness of jewels and the
gloss of velvet and satin to throw out the classic contour of his
fine head and enhance the lustre of his brooding, darkly-
passionate eyes. Denzil Murray was a pure-blooded Highlander,--the
level brows, the firm lips, the straight, fearless look, all
bespoke him a son of the heather-crowned mountains and a
descendant of the proud races that scorned the "Sassenach," and
retained sufficient of the material whereof their early Phoenician
ancestors were made to be capable of both the extremes of hate and
love in their most potent forms. He moved slowly towards the group
of men awaiting his approach with a reserved air of something like
hauteur; it was possible he was conscious of his good looks, but
it was equally evident that he did not desire to be made the
object of impertinent remark. His friends silently recognized