r than this, for it had its source in the
stories she had heard of Vetch that sounded original and dramatic. She
had imagined a personality that was striking, spectacular, or at least
interesting; and the actual Gideon Vetch had seemed to her merely
unimpressive and ordinary. Beside John Benham (as the thought of Benham
returned to her, her spirit rose on wings out of the shadow), beside
John Benham, in the drawing-room after dinner, Vetch had appeared at a
disadvantage that was almost ridiculous; and, as Stephen Culpeper had
hastened to point out, this was merely a striking illustration of the
damning contrast between the Governor's chequered political career and
Benham's stainless record of service.

A smile curved her lips as she gazed at the quivering sunbeams. Was that
deep instinct for perfection, the romantic vision of things as they
ought to be, awaking again? Did the starry flower bloom not in the
dream, but in reality? The passion to create beauty, to bring happiness,
which had been extinguished for years, burned afresh in her heart. Yes,
as long as there was beauty, as long as there was nobility of spirit,
she could fight on as one who believed in the future.

A shadow darkened the window, and a moment afterward there was a fall of
the old silver knocker on her door. She thought at first--the shadow had
seemed so young--that it was Stephen; but when she opened the door, she
saw, with a lovely flush, that it was John Benham.

"You expected me?" he asked, raising her hand to his lips.

"Yes, I knew that you would come," she answered, and the flush died
away slowly as she turned back to the fire. In the moment of recognition
all the despondency had vanished so utterly that it had not left even a
memory. He had brought not only peace, but youth and happiness back to
her eyes.

He came in as impressively as he presented himself to an audience; and
with the glow of pleasure still in her heart, she found her keen and
observant mind watching him almost as if he were a stranger. This had
been her misfortune always, the ardent heart joined to the critical
judgment, the spectator chained eternally to the protagonist. She
received a swift impression that he had prepared his words and even his
gestures, the kiss on her fingers. Yet, in spite of this suggestion of
the actor, or because of it, he possessed, she felt, great distinction.
The straight backward sweep of his hair; the sharp clearness of his
profile; the ste