from his seat, and with his back to the platform, was scanning the house with a pleasant smile on his handsome face.  “Yes, it is!” exclaimed Joseph, excitedly.  “It’s Sir Stephen Orme!  Here, take the glasses and look at him!  That gentleman looking round the house, the one standing up with the white waistcoat, the one that came in with the other two!  That’s the great Sir Stephen himself!  I saw him once in the city; besides, I’ve seen his portraits everywhere.  That’s the man who has created more excitement on the Stock Exchange than any man in our time.”

Ida took the glasses which he had thrust into her hand and held it to her eyes; but her hand shook, and for a moment or two she could distinguish nothing; then, as the mist passed away and her hand grew steadier, so that she could see Sir Stephen, he bent down and said something to the lady sitting beside him.  She looked round, and Ida saw distinctly, and for the first time, though fashionable London was tolerably familiar with it now, the beautiful face of Maude Falconer.

With her heart beating painfully Ida looked at her, noting with a woman’s quickness every detail of the handsome face with its wealth of bronze-gold hair.  A presentiment flashed into her mind and weighed upon her heart as she looked, a presentiment which was quickly verified, for the man on the other side of the beautiful woman rose and looked round the house, and Ida saw that it was Stafford.

Her hand gripped the opera-glass tightly, for it was in danger of falling.  She felt as if she were stifling, the great place, with its sea of faces and its rings of electric light, swam before her eyes, and she felt sick and giddy.  It seemed to her that Stafford was looking straight at her, that he could not fail to see her, and she shrank back as far as the seat would allow, and a sigh that was a gasp for breath escaped her lips, which had grown almost as white as her face.  In taking the glasses from her, Joseph noticed her pallor.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.  “Do you feel ill?  It’s beastly hot.  Would you like to come outside?”

“No, no,” she panted, with difficulty.  “It is the heat—­I am all right now—­I beg of you not to move—­not to speak to me.”

She fought against the horrible faintness, against the shock which had overwhelmed her; she bit her lips to force the colour back to them, and tried to keep her eyes from the tall figure, the handsome face against which she had so often pressed her own; but she could not; it was as if they were drawn to it by a kind of fascination.  She saw that he looked pale and haggard, and that the glance with which he swept the house was a wearied one, in strange contrast to the smiling, complacent, and even triumphant one of his father.