Barely two years had elapsed since the time of that tragedy in the little watering-place of Penruddie, and wonderful changes have come about.
Captain Howard Murpoint, no longer known as captain, but as Howard Murpoint, Esq., M. P., is, or is supposed to be, one of the great capitalists of the day.
How he has made his money and found his position is a mystery and a marvel.
And what of Violet? Has she forgotten her love-passion? Has she forgotten her ill-fated lover?
Look at her face, and see if it is the face of a woman that forgets.
None know how much she remembers, how much of the past she still clings to.
To no one, not even to Mrs. Dodson, whom she loves as a daughter loves her mother, does she ever mention that familiar name.
"Leicester" may be graven on her heart, but it never passes her lips.
We shall see her to-night, for there is a ball, the first of the season, at the Duchess of St. Clare's, at which she will be present, in company with the _élite_, including Bertie Fairfax.
Bertie Fairfax, the favorite of the club and the drawing-room. Still the handsome Apollo Belvedere, but not quite the light-hearted, free, laughing fellow as of old.
He is a celebrated man, an author of great repute, whom men point out to their sons as a modern genius, and to procure whom at their balls and dinners women will do much.
Bertie was fond of a dinner once and loved a ball, but it seems now as if "man delighted him not, nor woman either," at least not women.
He will always go to a ball or a dinner if he is sure that Lady Ethel Lackland will be present.
For the rest, he spends his life, writing hard, in those very set of chambers which his dear friend Leicester shared with him, and which his spirit still visits.
There is to be a crowd at Clare House to-night, and Bertie will see Ethel--perhaps speak to her.
As he leans against the Mildmay's carriage he tells Violet that he will be there, and he knows by the gentle smile with which she looks down at him that she knows why.
"I am so glad," she says. "Will you look out for me? Lady Boisdale will not be there till eleven."
There is indeed a crowd at Clare House. The huge staircases are one great crush, the saloons a scene of warfare.
To dance is almost impossible, save to those young and ardent votaries of Terpsichore who are willing to whirl in the mazy waltz reckless of their own dresses and other people's toes.