ggerated
vividness. On that night love had shone upon her--love, with its
coveted accompaniments of trust and protection. She remembered the
dimly-lit music-room, the dark garden with its old-fashioned scents;
she remembered Gore's quiet, distinct question. "Not one of these
people is anything to you--in any way?"

She remembered this; and she remembered also the infinitesimal pause
that had divided his question from her answer, when the images of Lady
Frances Hope, of Serracauld, of Deerehurst, had flitted across her
imagination. Then, last of all, she recalled her own answer--

"Not one of them is anything to me--in any way."

The moment that had brought forth that answer had been crucial--had
been, psychologically, intensely interesting. It had been the triumph
of love--the triumph of the egotism that is, and ever must be, a
component part of love.

And now, as she reviewed the incident in the colder light of day--as
she turned involuntarily and looked at Gore--she was suddenly mastered
by the certain knowledge that, were the circumstance to be repeated,
her action would be the same.

With a swift movement, she held out her hand.

"Walter," she said impulsively, "you are the only person in the world!
No one else exists!"

It was an hour later, and the outward aspect of Clodagh's drawing-room
had been changed. The sunblinds had been drawn up, and a full flood of
light allowed to pour in across the table in the window; the _debris_
of leaves and stalks upon the table--and with them Deerehurst's
card--had been removed to give place to a tea-tray; while through the
room itself rang the gay talk and laughter of people who have enjoyed a
genuinely pleasant meal.

The tea had been disposed of some little time ago; but Nance still
lingered beside the tea-table; and at her side stood Gore and a young
man of five-and-twenty, with a tall, slight figure, a pale face, and
intensely shrewd and penetrating eyes.

Clodagh, still wearing her riding habit, sat in the centre of the room
in radiantly high spirits, talking animatedly to a distinguished-looking
woman with beautiful white hair, and to a slim, graceful girl of about
Nance's age, who sat one on either side of her.

"Isn't it unkind of Mrs. Estcoit, Pierce?" she said, suddenly turning
towards the tea-table. "She says you must go!"

Estcoit laughed--and when he laughed a very agreeable gleam of humour
showed in his shrewd eyes.

"But it takes my mother ten mi