He gave his hand to the major, nodded curtly to Ellis, saluted his grandfather respectfully, and inquired for the ladies.

“Olivia is dressing for dinner,” replied the major; “Mrs. Ochiltree is in the kitchen, struggling with the servants.  Clara—­Ah, here she comes now!”

Ellis, whose senses were preternaturally acute where Clara was concerned, was already looking toward the hall and was the first to see her.  Clad in an evening gown of simple white, to the close-fitting corsage of which she had fastened a bunch of pink roses, she was to Ellis a dazzling apparition.  To him her erect and well-moulded form was the embodiment of symmetry, her voice sweet music, her movements the perfection of grace; and it scarcely needed a lover’s imagination to read in her fair countenance a pure heart and a high spirit,—­the truthfulness that scorns a lie, the pride which is not haughtiness.  There were suggestive depths of tenderness, too, in the curl of her lip, the droop of her long lashes, the glance of her blue eyes,—­depths that Ellis had long since divined, though he had never yet explored them.  She gave Ellis a friendly nod as she came in, but for the smile with which she greeted Delamere, Ellis would have given all that he possessed,—­not a great deal, it is true, but what could a man do more?

“You are the last one, Tom,” she said reproachfully.  “Mr. Ellis has been here half an hour.”

Delamere threw a glance at Ellis which was not exactly friendly.  Why should this fellow always be on hand to emphasize his own shortcomings?

“The rector is not here,” answered Tom triumphantly.  “You see I am not the last.”

“The rector,” replied Clara, “was called out of town at six o’clock this evening, to visit a dying man, and so cannot be here.  You are the last, Tom, and Mr. Ellis was the first.”

Ellis was ruefully aware that this comparison in his favor was the only visible advantage that he had gained from his early arrival.  He had not seen Miss Pemberton a moment sooner by reason of it.  There had been a certain satisfaction in being in the same house with her, but Delamere had arrived in time to share or, more correctly, to monopolize, the sunshine of her presence.

Delamere gave a plausible excuse which won Clara’s pardon and another enchanting smile, which pierced Ellis like a dagger.  He knew very well that Delamere’s excuse was a lie.  Ellis himself had been ready as early as six o’clock, but judging this to be too early, had stopped in at the Clarendon Club for half an hour, to look over the magazines.  While coming out he had glanced into the card-room, where he had seen his rival deep in a game of cards, from which Delamere had evidently not been able to tear himself until the last moment.  He had accounted for his lateness by a story quite inconsistent with these facts.

The two young people walked over to a window on the opposite side of the large room, where they stood talking to one another in low tones.  The major had left the room for a moment.  Old Mr. Delamere, who was watching his grandson and Clara with an indulgent smile, proceeded to rub salt into Ellis’s wounds.