They were at a grand reception, Mrs.Walraven magnificent in moir and diamonds, and Mollie floating about in a cloud of misty pink, and sparkling pearls, and amber tresses.

There, of course, was Sir Roger, and there (also, of course) were Dr.Oleander and Hugh Ingelow in a state of frantic jealousy.
It had come, long ere this, to be a settled thing that the Welsh baronet should never leave her side, except while she was dancing.

So that when, a little before supper, they strolled out on the piazza, it was nothing surprising or remarkable.
The winter night was windless and mild.

Sir Roger's asthmatic and rheumatic afflictions were quite safe in the warm atmosphere.

Moonlight flooded everything with its misty glory, stars spangled the sky, music came softened by distance from the ball-room--all was conducive to love and to love-making.