"If you will let me take you to this chair, I will endeavour to find out," replied the Armenian slave.
She sank into a seat near an open window, and he went to do her bidding. He came back after a minute or two.
"The fair lady's name is Miss Katherine Hepworth. I cannot find out much about her. She has been in society a little, not a great deal. She is acknowledged to be quite a beauty wherever she goes."
"Katherine Hepworth," whispered Katherine Hunt to herself. "K.H., Katherine Hepworth—K.H."
"What do you mean?" asked the Armenian slave.
"She has my initials," replied the girl. "I am interested in her. I should like to know her."
"Well, I have no doubt we can manage an introduction. I will try to find a mutual friend."
"Oh, there is no special hurry. I am not inclined to dance just at present; I want to watch the people. Sit down near me, will you, and tell me who's who."
The Armenian slave was well known in society as a certain Mr. Roy, an inveterate gossip, and a man who never failed to secure an entrée into the best houses. He was not in love with Katherine Hunt; but he was considerably in love with her money, and in consequence was only too anxious to do anything to please the young lady. He stood near her now, bent towards her, and answered her different questions. Yes, he knew everybody; through all their disguises he recognized the well-known features of the ladies of fashion. Even under their dominoes he knew who the men were who walked about to-night in their foreign characters. The only guest he neither knew nor recognized was the god of war, who made no sound as he peered into the faces of the guests. Beside the god of war might also have been seen by those who had very keen vision—by those who had that penetration which amounts to second sight—the grim, very grim form of the god of death. And the god of death marked his victims that night, scoring the name of one young gallant after another in his book of fate, for many met that evening who were never to meet again. The fancy ball at Kenmuir House was something like the celebrated dance in Brussels before the battle of Waterloo—
"Bright eyes looked love to eyes that spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell."