ings, blotting out all else. She lifted her
eyes to her host's.

"I agree with you," she swiftly said. "I should say that--that the
house is big enough."

CHAPTER VII

The remaining hours of that night passed like a dream for Clodagh.
Condemn herself as she might for the weakness, there was no subduing
the tumultuous excitement kindled by the thought that she was to see
Gore again.

It was not to be denied that time, intervening incidents, and a
sub-conscious personal desire had blunted the first resentment that
Lady Frances Hope's disclosures had engendered. In the reckless pursuit
of excitement that had marked the past three months, she had imagined
him banished from her mind; but now, at the knowledge of his promised
advent, she realised that it had only been an imagination; that,
despite everything, his place in her mind had never been usurped.

When at last she fell asleep, long after midnight, her thoughts were
strange, exciting, almost happy; and when next morning the entrance of
Simonetta roused her to consciousness, it was with something like
hopefulness and anticipation that she turned her eyes to the open
window, through which the clear country sunlight was breaking between
the gay chintz curtains.

With a quick, eager wakefulness she sat up in bed and pushed back her
loosened hair. A feeling, long forgotten, was stirring in her
heart--the vague, delicious hope of future things that had been wont to
thrill her long ago, when she rode her father's horses along the strand
at Orristown in the untarnished dawn of an Irish day.

During the process of dressing, this sense of anticipation grew; and
with it came a spontaneous wish for action. She became imbued with the
same desire for light and air and freedom that had possessed her on the
day in Florence when she had gazed out upon the distant hills from the
window of the villa.

Something of her eager energy was shining in her eyes, as she descended
the stairs and entered the sunny morning-room, where breakfast was
always served when the party at Tufnell was small.

Lady Diana and her husband were already in the room, glancing through
their morning letters, the former wearing a plain linen dress, the
latter an old shooting suit that had seen much service. At the moment
that she opened the door, Lady Diana was reading aloud from the letter
in her hand, while George Tuffnell was laughing with enormous
amusement. They made a very homely, pleasant p