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She nodded, with some amusement. In a few moments the other men came in—Page and Basil last, with their arms on one another's shoulders, and still mumbling the remnants of their argument. But now it was the poet's hour. The candles were collected about the piano; and while the audience sat in darkness, the poet, throwing back his head in the attitude of Beata Beatrix, received what light there was on his pale countenance and half-closed eyes; and, touching the keys lightly, he chanted a mysterious poem on Slumber. Horace Blackley had slipped out when the piano began; and through the curtains lie beckoned appealingly to Teresa and to Page, who sat near her. But he was obliged to stay alone. Teresa became slightly interested in the poem. It was indecent, but it was not commonplace. When its last sigh had died away, without waiting for comment, the poet struck several far-reaching chords, and glanced at Alice. She rose and came forward to the edge of the circle of candle-light. The poet played some unheard-of music, and Alice danced, or rather posed, lifting and swaying her arms, which emerged bare from the falling sleeves of the gold robe. The purpose of the robe now became apparent. Her face in shadow was barely seen, and it was at all times her least interesting point; but her beautiful figure, straight and lithe of line, expressed itself marvellously under the shimmer of the embroid-