see what has happened to you. You've
been--" Not even in her thoughts did she care to end the sentence. But
those shining dark eyes, that air of floating, of winged feet--"Ha, my
dear, upon my word! At thirty-one, my child. Really, it becomes you
uncommonly."

She found herself now walking swiftly up and down the room, clasping
and unclasping her hands. To think that James--the last man in the
world--had kept this up his coat-sleeve for years--and at last--! And
how like the dear thing to turn the light out! To save his own face,
of course, for he must have known, even _he_ must have known, that
_she_ wouldn't have cared. She would have liked the light--to see his
eyes! There had been no eyeglass this time, anyhow. But that was it.
That was a man's romance. In _Cupid and Psyche_, it had been Psyche
who had wanted to know, to see. Women were like that. Such realists.
And, as Psyche was, they were always sorry for it afterwards. Well,
bless him, he should love her in the dark, or how he pleased.

She stopped again--again in front of the glass. What had he seen--what
new thing had he seen to make him--want to kiss her like that?
Was she pretty? She supposed that she really was. She fingered the
crinkled whiteness at her neck; touched herself here and there; turned
her head sideways, and patted her hair, lifting her chin. Now, was
there anything she could put on--something she could put in--for
dinner? Her thoughts were now turned to serious matters--this and that
possibility flashed across her mind. They were serious matters,
because James had made them so by his most extraordinary, most
romantic, most beautiful action. Then she stretched out her hands, the
palms upward, and sighed out her heart. "Oh, what a load is lightened.
Oh, days to come!"

Voices in the conservatory suddenly made her heart beat violently. He
was coming! She heard James say--oh, the rogue!--"Yes, it's rather
nice. We put it up directly we came. Lucy's idea. Mind the little step
at the door, though." Urquhart, Francis Lingen were in the
room--Francis' topknot stood up like a bottle-brush. Then came the
hero of the evening, James, the unknown Eros. She beamed into the
shining disk. Sweet old spyglass, she would never abuse it again. All
the same, he had pocketed it for the occasion the last time he had
been in the room!

Urquhart refused tea. "Tea at seven o'clock at night!" All her eyes
were for James, who had sought her in love and given her hea