tensely passionate and
youthful--drifted across the salon and out into the night.

At the first note Clodagh halted, surprised and enchanted by the sound;
and sinking silently into one of the balcony chairs, rested one arm on
the iron railing.

The music Serracauld sang was French, and possessed much of the
distinction that marks that nation's art. The song was a hymn to
life--and its indispensable coadjutors, youth and love; and it went
with a peculiar lilt that stirred the blood and stimulated the fancy.
He sang it as it should be sung--easily and arrogantly; for, as
frequently happens with those who possess voices, he could express in
music thoughts, ideas, and emotions that never crossed his own selfish,
somewhat narrow soul.

Clodagh, staring down into the dark waters in an attitude of wrapt
attention, drank in the song to its last note; and as the final
vibration died away, she looked round at Deerehurst with an expression
infinitely softened and enhanced.

"How beautiful!" she said. "Oh, how beautiful!"

Deerehurst, who had seated himself beside her, leant forward and rested
his own arm upon the balcony railing.

"It is not the song that is beautiful, Mrs. Milbanke," he said, "but
the thoughts it has wakened in you."

Clodagh looked at him in silent question. She was still under the spell
of the music, and saw nothing to resent in his cold gaze.

"You were the instrument," he went on in the same lowered voice. "The
notes were not played upon the piano, but upon your brain. Your brain
is a network of sensitive strings, waiting to be played on by every
factor in life--music, colour, sunshine, emotion----" His tone sank.

Clodagh glanced quickly at his tall, thin figure, seated so close to
her own, and at the wax-like, inscrutable face showing through the
dusk.

"You seem to know me better than I know myself," she said uncertainly.

He watched her intently for a moment; then he leant forward, his long,
pale fingers toying with the ribbon of his eyeglass.

"I do know you better than you know yourself."

She gave a little embarrassed laugh.

"Then explain me to myself!"

Again he seemed to study her; then he leant back in his chair with a
decisive movement.

"No!" he said--"no! Not now! In a year--or two--or even three, perhaps.
But not now."

She laughed again; and unconsciously a note of relief underran her
laugh--a relief that, by a natural sequence of emotion, brought a fresh
reaction to the