iched by the neutral
colour of her dress, and in the bright light of the hotel rooms, the
underlying gleam of gold was distinctly visible in her brown hair. Her
whole appearance as she entered the dining-room was subtly attractive;
and in every detail of her expression pleasure and anticipation gleamed
like tangible things. From the colour that wavered in her cheeks to the
dilated pupils that turned her eyes from hazel to black, she was the
embodiment of eager expectation.

Neither Deerehurst, Serracauld, nor Barnard dined at the hotel that
night, but from the eyes of more than one stranger she read the
assurance that she had not arrayed herself in vain; and youthfully
conscious of a subtle, impersonal success, her eager spirits rose high.

Regardless of Milbanke's monosyllabic answers, she kept up a stream of
conversation; and at last, when she rose with the general company, she
did not leave the room, but paused with her hand on the back of his
chair.

"I am going for my cloak, James," she said. "Mr. Barnard is to call for
me. Shall we say good-night now?" Her face, as she bent forward,
leaning over his shoulder, was filled with a bright preoccupation.

The scene was no new one--nor was its lesson new. It merely expounded
the eternal disparity between the present generation and the past. On
the one hand, was the patient surrender of the being who has known life
with its poor compensations and its tardy requitals; on the other, the
impatience, the ardour, the egotism of the being who longs to
understand, to tear the bandage from his blind, curious eyes, to shake
the fetters from his eager, groping hands. It was a scene that is
enacted every day of every year by fathers and daughters, mothers and
sons. A scene in which, daily and yearly, a merciful nature mitigates
the tragic truth by means of a blessed sanity--an instinctive
renunciation. But this was no case for natural healing balm; this was
no case of father and daughter, but of husband and wife.

"Shall we say good-night?" Clodagh asked again.

Milbanke started and looked up; and something in her warm
beauty--something in her gracious youth affected him.

"Clodagh," he said timidly. "Clodagh, are you--are you very anxious?
Will you enjoy this party very much?"

Clodagh looked down on him in frank surprise.

"Why, of course!" she said. "Why do you ask?"

His gaze wavered before her level glance. He looked round at the fast
emptying room.

"No reason, m