her own way in the long run. That
she was a girl--and, with all her shortcomings, a very innocent
one--made her odd powers of fascination but the more insidious. She
wore a dress of wine-coloured silk which fitted plainly over her breast
and shoulders and fell in graceful flounces from the waist. The warm,
olive lines of her cheek and throat appeared the darker in contrast with
a twist of white lace which she wore round her neck; and her black hair,
dressed higher than usual, was held in place by a large ruby comb which
caught the fire-light as she moved. Reckage was conscious, for the first
time in his life, of a real embarrassment. He could not talk to her; he
felt tongue-tied when she addressed him. Ill at ease, yet not unhappy,
he struggled to maintain some coherence in his conversation; but, at
each moment, his own ideas grew less certain and Sara's voice more
enchanting. It seemed to convey the lulling powers of an anodyne. When
he tried to rouse himself, the effort was as painful as the attempt to
wake from a dream within a dream.

"You were at the wedding this morning?" she asked lightly.

"No.... What a fool I am! Yes, of course. You mean Robert's wedding?"

She gave a little smile, and murmured, dropping her voice, "I meant
Robert's wedding."

Luncheon was then announced: the sliding doors which separated the
dining-room from Lord Garrow's library were rolled back. They all walked
in--Pensee and Sara leading the way.

"A sweet creature!" whispered his lordship behind their backs,
indicating Lady Fitz Rewes. He sighed as he spoke. He could never feel
that there was not something deplorable in Sara's physical brilliancy.
Her upper-lip that day had a certain curl which he had learnt to regard
as a danger-signal. What would she do next? As he sat down at the table
and observed the sweep of her eyelashes toward Reckage, a presentiment
of trouble clouded the new hopes he had formed for her career.

"Who are your strong men now?" asked Harding suddenly, after a moment's
contemplation of Reckage, who sat opposite.

"Our strong men?" faltered Lord Garrow.

"Aren't most of 'em place-hunters and self-seekers?"

"You must meet Robert Orange," said Pensee; "Mr. Disraeli believes in
Robert Orange."

"I never heard of him," observed Sir Piers. "Who is he?"

"You may well ask," said Lord Garrow. "He claims to be a de Hausee--on
his father's side. Reckage can tell you about him. Many have a high
opinion of the fel