"I am sorry, my angel," he had whispered softly into her ear, "I did not mean to frighten you. Are you just a little innocent after all? But a very passionate little innocent," he had commented, kissing her temple gently. "Will you remove your mask for me, little sweet?"

"No, monsieur," Margaret had replied, remembering the French accent, but her voice shaking slightly.

"Ah, but I shall discover you at unmasking time," he had teased, smiling down into her eyes, "and I shall be coming to call on you, my angel."

"Please, monsieur, I think we should go inside now," Margaret had said, and added as an afterthought, "I should like a glass of lemonade, please."

Brampton had drawn her arm gently through his again and led her back to the terrace.

"Stay here, angel," he had said, releasing her arm. "I shall bring you some lemonade without delay."

"Margaret!" a shocked voice had hissed as the earl disappeared into the ballroom. "Where have you been, my girl? Your father and I have been searching for you this half-hour past. Do you know no better, child, than to walk alone in the garden at night, with a man?"

Margaret's mother had whisked her away home without more ado, and she had not been allowed to attend any social functions for the next week.

That night had been an end and a beginning for Margaret. It had been the end of her delight in the activities of the ton. She had participated in a vast number of events for the rest of that Season and for the next five, and she had received three offers of marriage, one at the end of that first Season from an earnest young man who wrote a sonnet to her eyes, and two others in later years. But she had not been able to force herself either to enjoy the activities or to welcome any of the proposals. It had been the beginning of her undying and hopeless passion for the Earl of Brampton.