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She had not even a hope of being asked for it, because she was so

successful in society that the idea would never occur to anyone

that she had remained disengaged till now. She would have to tell

her mother she felt ill and go home, but she had not the strength

to do this. She felt crushed. She went to the furthest end of the

little drawing-room and sank into a low chair. Her light,

transparent skirts rose like a cloud about her slender waist; one

bare, thin, soft, girlish arm, hanging listlessly, was lost in

the folds of her pink tunic; in the other she held her fan, and

with rapid, short strokes fanned her burning face. But while she

looked like a butterfly, clinging to a blade of grass, and just

about to open its rainbow wings for fresh flight, her heart ached

with a horrible despair.

"But perhaps I am wrong, perhaps it was not so?" And again she

recalled all she had seen.