The problem was solved:  he saw her face suddenly flush, and then as suddenly grow pale.  So sharp had been the blow, its effect so overwhelming, that her fan fell from her hand.  Howard, as he restored it to her, seized the opportunity of looking her full in the face, and assurance was made doubly sure.

This girl did hold his friend Stafford’s happiness in her hand.

Ida was silent for a moment, because she knew she could not control her voice, could not keep it steady; then, with a quickened breath, she said: 

“Yes, I knew Mr. Orme—­Lord Highcliffe.”

“Then I hope you liked him,” he said, mercilessly; for there was no time for mercy; some idiot of a dancing-man would come and take her from him the next minute.  “I express the hope, because I myself like and admire him very much indeed.  He is a splendid fellow, and one of those instances of a good man struggling with adversity.  Are you fond of poetry, Miss Heron?”

Ida’s bosom was heaving, she was fighting for calm.  She knew now who it was with whom she was speaking; it was the friend, the cynical Mr. Howard, of whom Stafford had told her; she had not caught his name at the introduction.  She regarded him with intense interest, and inclined her head by way of assent.

“I never think of my friend, Lord Highcliffe, without recalling those significant lines of William Watson’s.”  He looked at her; and be it said that his eyes were fine and impressive ones when he showed them plainly.  “These are the lines: 

  “’I do not ask to have my fill
    Of wine, of love, or fame. 
  I do not for a little ill
    Against the gods exclaim.

  “’One boon of fortune I implore,
    With one petition kneel: 
  At least caress me not before
    Thou break me on thy wheel!’”

Her lip quivered and her long lashes concealed her eyes.

“They are fine lines,” she said.

“They fit my friend Lord Highcliffe’s case to a T. He was for a time the spoiled darling of fortune; she caressed him as she caresses few men—­and now she is breaking him on her wheel; and the caresses, of course, make the breaking all the harder to bear.  He writes most interesting letters—­I don’t know whether you care about farming and cattle-raising and that kind of thing; for my own part I am sublimely ignorant of such matters.  I can lay my hand upon my heart and say I know a cow from a horse, but nothing shall induce me to go further.  If you are interested, I would venture to offer to show you one of his letters; there is nothing in them of a private character.”

Her heart beat still more quickly; he saw the eager light flash in her eyes; and his hand went to his breast coat-pocket; then he said, blandly: 

“I will bring one next time we meet.  Are you going—­where are you going to-morrow, Miss Heron?  I, too, shall be going there probably?”

She put her hand to her lips with a little nervous gesture:  she was disappointed, she thought he was going to show her a letter, then and there.