Excerpt from John Worthington's Name: A Novel

The music swelled joyously out again, and the dancers began their dizzy rounds with the fresh energy inspired by Strauss's most bewitching waltz. The bright toilets of the women, as usual, presented so odd a contrast to the sombre garb in which custom arrays the masculine race on festive occasions, that a fanciful person might have compared the scene to a troop of gaudy butterflies entangled in the embrace of wicked black wasps, from which no effort of the filmy-winged creatures could set them free.

It was the ball-room at Baden Baden, so I need attempt no description, the generality of people in this age of pilgrimages are as familiar with it as with their own libraries - a good many of them more at home there, perhaps , and those to whom fate has denied the privilege of absolutely standing within the enchanted precincts, know it nearly as well from photographs, and the endless summer tours wherewith travelers insist upon inflicting the public, in spite of loud and prolonged remonstrances from that much-suffering body.

Milly Crofton sat in the shadow of plump Mrs. Lawrence's voluminous draperies, and, with the enviable faculty of eighteen, was able to admire the brilliant spectacle, though she was only there for a short time as a looker-on. It was fortunate that she had youth enough to find amusement so easily, otherwise the last half hour might have dragged rather heavily, for Mrs. Lawrence had stumbled on an old acquaintance, and the two were so deep in conversation about matters which dated at least twenty years back, that neither the good-natured lady nor the antiquated beau - long resigned to flesh and lumbago - remembered that they were scarcely doing their duty by the young woman. But Milly bore the forgetfulness patiently, in spite of the fact that patience did not rank among her chief virtues, and that she belonged to a nation whereof the youth of both sexes are popularly supposed to enforce their wishes and whims upon their elders without compunction, and to find a ready submission on the part of the antiquated generation.

Milly was a charming specimen of the prettiest type of American girl, dazzling in complexion, with a profusion of soft blonde hair, eager blue eyes like a child's, a mouth which could pout or smile, perfect as to hands and feet, and with that indescribable elegance which is a more fortunate gift even than beauty. I think she is not exactly my heroine - certain dyspeptic critics insinuate that I have a bad habit of not contenting myself with one but I am very fond of her, and could not resist these few words of personal description.

There she sat, listening absently to the unwearied hum of Mrs. Lawrence's voice, and the stuffy tones of the ancient beau, which sounded as if he spoke through layers of turtle steak, and watching the dancers while her tiny feet unconsciously kept time to the music. Presently two men paused by chance near the spot, and continued an audible conversation in French, which roused another train of thought in Milly's mind. One of the mustached creatures had just come from the gaming-tables, a winner, it appeared, and his companion was endeavoring to persuade him not to tempt Fate further on this occasion, but rest contented with the brief favor she had shown.

I am sorry to confess it, but straightway the Devil put a horrible idea into Millys soul - I wish I could say a new one, but the Devil had whispered that thought on the first evening she set foot in the place, and during the last three days had never grown tired of presenting it to her. Heretofore Conscience had driven the tempter away without difficulty, but now, though a very well brought-up young person. Milly grew a little tired of Conscience and her admonitions you know our best friends, unfortunately, are often somewhat wearisome