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 156 to summon Lady Jane; Lucy meanwhile remaining entirely ignorant of the discovery and its results. Lucy had enough on her heart just then, if not on her hands, in looking out for food for her new jealousy.

It was not an ordinary evening at ordinary sea-side gala rooms, but a grand fête for which the rooms had for once been lent, and to which everybody of note flocked, not only of the temporary visitors, but of the local, standing society. Much had been made of it, and the arrangements were of that complete, it may be said superb, nature, not often seen. You may be very sure the ladies’ toilettes were not behind the rest in attraction.

Lady Oakburn and Lucy arrived late. So late indeed that Miss Helen Vaughan was saying to herself they certainly would not come. The little Earl of Oakburn was with them. The little earl was indulged a great deal more than was good for him, especially by Lucy, and his mamma had yielded to the young gentleman’s demand of “going to the ball,” upon the condition that when he had taken a twenty minutes’ peep at it, he should retire quietly and be conveyed home by Pompey. The delay in their arrival was caused by their expectancy of Lady Jane. Jane had telegraphed to the countess that she was on her road, and they waited to receive her. But it grew late, and she had not come.

As Lucy entered the rooms, her eyes were dazzled for a moment by the blaze of light, and then they ranged themselves abroad in search of—what? Exactly in search of what she saw, and nothing less; of what her jealous heart had pictured. Whirling round the room in the mazy waltz, to the tones of the sweetest music, his arm encircling her waist, his hand clasping hers, his eyes bent upon her with admiration, or what looked like it, and his voice lowered to whispered tones of softness, were Frederick Grey and Helen Vaughan. A pang, almost as of death, shot through Lucy’s heart, and she shivered in her excess of pain.

Helen Vaughan looked well. She always did look so. Tall, regal, stately, fair: a fit companion for the distinguished Frederick Grey—and many were thinking so. But what was her beauty, compared to that of Lucy Chesney?—with her retiring grace, her exquisite features, her complexion of damask purity, and her sweet brown eyes? Both were dressed in white; robes soft, flowing, fleecy as a cloud; Miss Vaughan displayed an elaborate set of ornaments, emeralds set in much gold; Lucy wore only pearls, the better taste for a young lady. Both of them looked very very beautiful, and the room thought so; Helen Vaughan was praised in words, but a murmur of hushed admiration followed Lucy Chesney.

The waltz was over, and Frederick Grey made his way to Lucy. She affected not to see him; she had her head turned, and was talking volubly to Fanny Darlington: he had to touch her at length to obtain her attention.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” she coldly said. “Good evening.”

“How late you are, Lucy! The dance for which you were engaged to me is over.”

“I supposed it would be,” she said in her bitter resentment. “I told you at the time I promised that it was more than probable I should not perform.”

“You will dance this next with me. I think it is to be the Lancers.”

Was she deaf? She made no reply whatever, and her head was turned from him. At that moment, a gentleman was brought up and introduced to her; a little man who looked as if he had not two ideas in his whole brain, with an eyeglass popped artistically in his eye, and his sandy hair parted down the middle, back and front. She did not catch his name; it was Viscount Somebody, one of the county notabilities; but she put her hand within his arm when he solicited the honour of it for the forthcoming quadrille, and was moving away with him.

Mr. Frederick Grey’s blood boiled up, dyeing his brow crimson. He laid his hand on Lucy’s arm to detain her.

“I asked you first, Lucy.”

She recoiled from the touch, as if there had been contamination in it. “I beg your pardon. Did you speak to me?”

“I asked you for this quadrille. You are engaged to me for it, not to him.”

“If you are anxious to dance it, there’s no lack of partners”—and her tone stung him with its indifferent coldness. “Plenty are waiting for you: Miss Lake, Miss Vaughan, Miss Darlington—look at them. Pray choose one.”

She moved away in her haughty pride; a looker-on might have said in her calm indifference. But every pulse in her body was throbbing with pain, every fibre of her heart was sick with love—love for Frederick Grey.

His face was ablaze with anger, and he stood still for a moment, possibly undecided whether to make a scene and pull the little viscount’s nose, or to let it alone. Then he went straight up to Helen Vaughan and asked her for the quadrille. They took their places in it, vis-à-vis to the viscount and Lucy.

Lady Grey was seated between the Countess of Oakburn and Mrs. Delcie. The latter, an inveterate busy-body, one of those wretched