CHAPTER XII.
SHE was still sitting in the gallery, when Campbell at last caught sight of her—just at that period of the entertainment when all rational people think about going to bed, and the younger ones feel an ever-increasing need of chasing the glowing hours with flying feet, till the approach of morning puts even their gay spirits to flight—“Like ghosts from an enchanted fleeing.”
“Won’t you come and have another turn, Mrs. Austin?” he said lightly. “Let us have another circular?—as I heard one of the natives say just now. The floor is just perfect, and there is not such a crowd.”
Lizzie took his arm as if in a dream, and they floated round the room once more, to the melancholy music of “positively the last extra.” However pressing her secret troubles might be, she determined to shut the door in their faces for a brief space. The hour belonged to her, to
