“I must wire this news to Delorme,” said he suddenly.  “He’ll be delighted.”  Lucillemade no reply.

As they neared the end of the drive and came within sight of the house, the girl whispered:—­

“My own pal, Dammy, for always.  And you thought I could be engaged to anyone but you.  There is no one but you in the world, dear.  It would be quite empty if you left it.  Don’t worry about ways and means and things, Dam, I shall enjoy waiting for you—­twenty years.”

He thought of that, later.

On the morrow of that incredible day, Damocles de Warrenne sprang from his bed at sunrise and sought the dew-washed garden below the big south terrace.

The world contained no happier man.  Sunrise in a glorious English summer and a grand old English garden, on the day after the Day of Days.  He trod on air as he lived over again every second of that wonderful over-night scene, and scarcely realized the impossible truth.

Lucille loved him, as a lover!  Lucille the alter ego, the understanding, splendid friend; companion in play and work, in idle gaiety and serious consideration; the bon camarade, the real chum and pal.

Life was a Song, the world a Paradise, the future a long-drawn Glory.

He would like to go and hold the Sword in his hand for a minute, and—­something seemed to stir beneath his foot, and a shudder ran through his powerful frame.

The brightness of the morning was dimmed, and then Lucille came towards him blushing, radiant, changed, and all was well with the world, and God in high heaven.

* * * * *

After breakfast they again walked in the garden, the truly enchanted garden, and talked soberly with but few endearments though with over-full hearts, and with constant pauses to eye the face of the other with wondering rapture.  They came of a class and a race not given to excessive demonstrativeness, but each knew that the other loved—­for life.

In the afternoon, guests began to arrive soon after lunch, duties usurped the place of pleasures, and the lovers met as mere friends in the crowd.  There was meaning in the passing glances, however, and an occasional hand-touch in the giving of tennis-ball, or tea-cup.

“Half the County” was present, and while the younger fry played tennis, croquet, clock-golf, and bowls, indulged in “mixed cricket,” or attempted victory at archery or miniature-rifle shooting, the sedate elders strolled o’er velvet lawns beneath immemorial elms, sat in groups, or took tea by carpet-spread marquees.

Miss Amelia Harringport, seeing Dam with a croquet-mallet in his hand, observed that she adored croquet.  Dam stated in reply that Haddon Berners was a fearful dog at it, considered there should be a croquet Blue in fact, and would doubtless be charmed to make up a set with her and the curate, the Reverend William Williamson Williams (Holy Bill), and Another.  Dam himself was cut off from the bliss of being the Other—­did not know the game at all.