At Love's Cost

The ball was at its height. Even the coldest and most _blasé_ of the

guests had warmed up and caught fire at the blaze of excitement and

enjoyment. The ball-room was dazzling in the beauty of its decorations

and the soft effulgence of the shaded electric light, in which the

magnificent jewels of the titled and wealthy women seemed to glow with

a subdued and chastened fire. A dance was in progress, and Stafford, as

he stood by the doorway and looked mechanically and dully at the

whirling crowd, the kaleidoscope of colour formed by the rich dresses,

the fluttering fans, and the dashes of black represented by the men's

clothes, thought vaguely that he had never seen anything more

magnificent, more elegant of wealth and success. But through it all,

weird and ghost-like shone Ida's girlish face, with its love-lit eyes

and sweetly curving lips.

He looked round, and presently he saw Maude Falconer in her strange and

striking dress. She was dancing with Lord Fitzharford. There was not a

touch of colour in her face, her lips were pensive, her lids lowered;

she looked like an exquisite statue, exquisitely clothed, moving with

the exquisite poetry of motion, but quite devoid of feeling. Suddenly,

as if she felt his presence, she raised her eyes and looked at him. A

light shot into them, glowed for a moment, her lips curved with the

faintest of smiles, and a warm tint stole to her face.

It was an eloquent look, one that could not be mistaken by the least

vain of men, and it went straight through Stafford's heart; for it

forced him to realise that which he had not even yet quite

realised--that he had tacitly pledged himself to her. Under other

circumstances, the thought might have set his heart beating and sent

the blood coursing hotly through his veins; but with his heart aching

with love for Ida, and despair at the loss of her, Maude Falconer's

love-glance only chilled him and made him shudder with apprehension of

the future, with the thought of the cost of the sacrifice which he had

taken upon himself. The music sounded like a funeral march in his ears,

the glitter, the heat, the movement, seemed unendurable; and he

threaded his way round the room to an ante-room which had been fitted

up as a buffet.

"Give me some wine, please," he said to the butler, trying to speak in

his ordinary tone; but he knew that his voice was harsh and strained,

knew that the butler noticed it, though the well-trained servant did

not move an eyelid, but opened a bottle of champagne with solemn

alacrity and poured out a glass. Stafford signed to him to place the

bottle near and drank a couple of glasses.