shining steel grate, and a solitary female figure
was seated by the broad Tudor window bending over some needlework.

It was the figure of Diana Paget, and she was quite alone in the room.
Valentine's heart sank a little as he saw the solitary figure, and
perceived that it was not the woman he loved.

Diana looked up from her work and recognised the visitor. Her face
flushed, but the flush faded very quickly, and Valentine was not
conscious of that flattering indication.

"How do you do, Diana?" he said. "Here I am again, you see, like the
proverbial bad shilling. I have brought Mrs. Sheldon an order for the
Princess's." "You are very kind; but I don't think she'll care to go.
She was complaining of a headache this afternoon."

"O, she'll forget all about her headache if she wants to go to the
play. She's the sort of little woman who is always ready for a theatre
or a concert. Besides, Miss Halliday may like to go, and will easily
persuade her mamma. Whom could she not persuade?" added Mr. Hawkehurst
within himself.

"Miss Halliday is out of town," Diana replied coldly.

The young man felt as if his heart were suddenly transformed into so
much lead, so heavy did it seem to grow. What a foolish thing it seemed
that he should be the victim of this fair enslaver!--he who until
lately had fancied himself incapable of any earnest feeling or deep
emotion.

"Out of town!" he repeated with unconcealed disappointment.

"Yes; she has gone on a visit to some relations in Yorkshire. She
actually has relations; doesn't that sound strange to you and me?"

Valentine did not notice this rather cynical remark.

"She'll be away ever so long, I suppose?" he said.

"I have no idea how long she may stay there. The people idolise her, I
understand. You know it is her privilege to be idolised; and of course
they will persuade her to stay as long as they can. You seem
disappointed at not seeing her."

"I am very much disappointed," Valentine answered frankly; "she is a
sweet girl."

There was a silence after this. Miss Paget resumed her work with rapid
fingers. She was picking up shining little beads one by one on the
point of her needle, and transferring them to the canvas stretched upon
an embroidery frame before her. It was a kind of work exacting extreme
care and precision, and the girl's hand never faltered, though a
tempest of passionate feeling agitated her as she worked.

"I am very sorry not to see her," Valentine sa