Graydon was a long time away, longer than he had ever been before when acting as her escort.  While she felt this neglect, and interpreted it naturally, she was not sorry.  She dreaded meeting him again.  In one brief hour her old ease and freedom with him had gone.  She wondered at the change in herself, yet knew that it was as definite and decided as if she had become another person.  When be had brought her the glass of water she could look into his face with the frank directness of a child.  Why could she not do so now?  Why did she almost tremble at the thought of his glance, his touch, his presence?  She knew that he would come back with his old genial, kindly manner—­that he would be the same.  But a change had occurred in her which made the fabled transmutations of magic wands seem superficial indeed.  Would he note this change?  Could he guess the cause?  Oh, what was the cause?  Even her pale face grew crimson, for there are truths that come to the consciousness like the lightning from heaven.  She did not need to think, to weigh and reason.  A woman’s heart is often above and beyond her reason, and hers had been awakened at last by the all-powerful touch of love.

The time passed, and still Graydon did not come.  He was not absent very long, and yet it began to seem terribly long to her.  She had overrated her powers, and found that even pride could not sustain her.  She had no reserve of strength to draw upon.  The heat of the room grew oppressive, and she was unaccustomed to throngs, confusion, and noise.  The consciousness of her weakness was forced upon her most painfully at last by the appearance of Miss Wildmere on Graydon’s arm.  The belle was smiling, radiant, her step elastic, her eyes shining with excitement and pleasure.  Her practiced scrutiny had assured her that she was the queen of the hour; the handsomest and most courtly man present was so devoted as to suggest that he might easily become a lover; she had seen many glances of envy, and one, in the case of poor Madge, of positive pain.  What more could her heart desire?  Graydon conducted her to her chaperon, near whom half a dozen gentlemen were waiting for a chance to be his successor; and, having obtained her promise for another dance later in the evening, he turned deprecatingly to Madge.  His apologies ceased before they were half spoken.  She looked so white and ill that he was alarmed, and asked permission to get her a glass of wine.

“No, Graydon,” she said, then hesitated, for she felt the color coming into her face, while a strange blur confused every object in the room.  “I’m very, very sorry,” she added, hastily, after a moment.  “I ought not to have come.  I’m not equal to this.  It wouldn’t take you very long to drive home with me, and then you could return.  Please, Graydon.”

Her tone was so urgent, and she appeared so weak, that he complied at once, saying, with much compunction, “I should not have left you alone so long, but supposed you were amusing yourself by looking at the people.”