“Hush!” as the light of the opening hall door was seen, and Lady Tyrrell’s voice was heard, saying, “I thought we passed her; I am sure she was near.”

Eleonora withdrew her arm, patted Frank back, waved him into silence, and went forward, saying, “Here I am, Camilla; I walked home.”

Her voice was calm and self-contained as ever—­the unassailable dignity just as usual.  The hall was full of officers, standing about the fire and drinking tea, and Eleonora’s well-worn armour was instantly on, as her sister asked where she had been, since others had walked home and had not overtaken her.

“I came by the lower road,” said she.

“Indeed!  I never saw you.”

“I saw you pass—­or rather heard you.”

“And did not let me pick you up!  Did you hide yourself?”

“It was much warmer to walk.”

“So you seem to have found it, to judge by your cheeks,” said Lady Tyrrell.

And Mr. Strangeways and one or two others could not restrain a murmured exclamation on the exceeding loveliness of that deepened colour and brightened eye; but Lenore only knew that an equally bright and keen eye was watching her heedfully, and knew that she was suspected, if not read through and through.

She mingled in the discussion of the skating, with those outward society-senses that she learnt to put on, and escaped as soon as possible to her own room.

Again she almost fell on the ground in her own little oratory chamber, in a tumult of gladness that was almost agony, and fear that was almost joy.

She wanted to give thanks that Frank had become so wholly and avowedly hers, and for that deep intense affection that had gone on, unfed, uncherished, for years; but the overflow of delight was checked with foreboding—­there was the instinctive terror of a basilisk eye gazing into her paradise of joy—­the thanksgiving ran into a half-despairing deprecation.

And she knew that Frank was under Camilla’s spell, and admired and trusted her still; nor had she been able to utter a word of caution to undeceive him.  Should she have the power on the morrow?  Camilla really loved skating, and surrounded as she was sure to be, there was hope of escaping her vigilant eye once more.  To-morrow there would be another meeting with Frank! perhaps another walk with him!

That anticipation was soothing enough to bring back the power of joyful gratitude, and therewith of hopeful prayer.

CHAPTER XV Plot and Counterplot

A lady a party of pleasure made,
   And she planned her scheme full well,
And day and night the party filled
   The head of the demoiselle.—­FABER

Though Frank had no reason to expect that the tidings of his success would be hailed with much satisfaction at home, yet his habit of turning to his mother for sympathy would have been too much for his prudence, but for the fact that Terry De Lancey had dragged into her room a massive volume of prints from the Uffizi Gallery, and was looking it over with her, with a zest she had not seen since the days when her father gloried in his collection.