ather, effusive, superficial
friendship--surged through her. And yet where was she to find a firmer
sentiment? Where, in all the world, was there a being who had any real
need of her? Her aunt? Her cousin? She knew instinctively that their
world and her own were inevitably sundered. Nance? Had not even
Nance--the little Nance of childish days--already begun to gather
interests of her own--to form her own friendships? No; there was no
niche that especially claimed, that especially needed her!

At this point in her hasty and confused speculations, the door of the
drawing-room was thrown open: and, after an interval of two years, she
saw Lord Deerehurst and Serracauld.

More than once she had pictured the meeting with the old peer; but, as
is invariably the case, the reality was much more vivid than the
imagination had been. Deerehurst came forward with the stiff, courtly
manner that brought back with almost painful clearness the balcony of
the Venetian palace--the Venetian salon with its polished floor and
glittering chandeliers--the Venetian night-music borne across the
waters. It all surged back in a wave of memory--first a pang of pain,
then a pang of reckless self-contempt. After all, who cared? What did
her action--her manner of living--even her existence--matter to any
living soul? She held out her hand and allowed him to bow over it.

He bowed over it for a long time; then he raised his head and looked at
her. His pale, inscrutable face was as waxlike as ever; his eyes were
as cold, as penetrating, as old in their look of supreme wisdom.

"So we meet again," he said. "My hope has been fulfilled!"

For a moment Clodagh stood, permitting him to clasp her fingers and
look into her face, while she herself made no effort to speak; then, as
if suddenly conscious of something strange in the position, she freed
her hand with a little, nervous laugh, and turned to where Serracauld
was waiting to greet her.

With a smile and a gesture of easy familiarity the younger man came
forward.

"Welcome to England!" he said. "Only yesterday a man at my club was
telling me of the prettiest woman on the Riviera this year. I won't be
personal, but the lady was at Monte Carlo only a week ago--turning
other people's heads and emptying her own pockets with the most
delightful impartiality."

Clodagh laughed, but this time without embarrassment.

"Be as personal as you like!" she said carelessly. "It wasn't my fault
if luck was de