"You are mistaken. They are only admiring your uniform," she retorts, gayly, and the soldier thinks to himself that surely the smile upon the crimson lips is the gladdest and sweetest that ever rejoiced a lover's heart.
But it fades suddenly, the glad, sweet smile, and the blush upon the rounded cheek.
The dance is over, and they are lingering together by a stand of rare and fragrant flowers.
Suddenly the blush and smile fade together. A strange, stern look comes into the dark eyes, she drops the rose that her lover has just placed in her hand.
"Vera," he asks, looking anxiously at her, "what ails you, dear? You have grown so grave."
She looks up at him with strange eyes, from which the light and joy of a moment ago have faded as if they had never been.
"Philip, who is that woman over there, in the crimson brocade and rubies?" she asks, indicating the person by a slight inclination of her head.
His glance follows hers.
"That woman—yes, someone told me awhile ago that she was a countrywoman of mine, a Mrs. Cleveland. The one next her, in the diamonds, is her daughter."
Lady Vera is silent a moment, gazing steadily at the unconscious two.