ut her
heart was Victorian. She looked up to Peignton as a god and hero, and
prayed daily to be permitted to serve him on her knees. Also, being
Victorian in modesty, she prayed with scarcely less fervour that "unless
he asked her" he might never suspect her love, and comported herself in
the spirit of that prayer. Therefore Peignton considered that she was
ignorant of his designs, and told himself that there was no hurry,--no
hurry. It was better to go slow.

This was the first informal occasion on which Peignton had visited the
Court and seen Cassandra in the intimacy of a _partie carree_, and
before the first hour was over he had found it necessary to readjust
many impressions concerning his hostess. First, she was younger than he
imagined. When she smiled, or made little grimaces of disgust at
incidents in the play, or lifted her eyebrows at him appealingly on the
commission of a fault, she was not a great lady any more, she was a
girl, like the girl by her side. Secondly, she was less beautiful. He
had seen her at stately dinner parties, gorgeously gowned, a tiara
flashing on her dark head, and had believed her to be faultless of
feature; but she was not faultless, her nose deviated noticeably from
the straight, her mouth was too large; on a nearer view the classical
beauty disappeared, but her place was taken by a woman infinitely more
alluring. He admired in especial the poise of the little head, and the
way in which she dressed her hair. It was parted in the middle, dipped
low on the forehead, and then swept upwards, and in some mysterious
fashion became a thick plait which encircled her head, like a victor's
crown. There seemed no beginning or end to that plait, so deftly was it
woven, and to the onlooker it appeared as if a Midas finger had laid a
gentle touch on each entwining braid, so brightly shone out the golden
tints in the brown, burnished hair. Peignton had never seen dark hair
show such brilliant lights; he thought that wreath-like plait with the
golden lights more beautiful than a hundred tiaras. Why did not all
women wear their hair like that?

And her figure too--there was something beguiling about her figure. The
softly swathed folds of silk suggested neither dressmaker nor
corsetiere, but a warm, living woman. Her neck was as white as her
hand...

"Steam ahead, Peignton. We're waiting for your declaration. What are
you dreaming about, man?"

"Don't ask me. I couldn't tell y