“Come and look at the water,” she said to Mr. Lane; “I would rather not walk up and down if you don’t mind.”

He thought she was tired, and politely led her through the sitting or promenading groups till once more she was leaning over the parapet, now trying to talk, now to absorb herself in the magic of bridge, river, and sky, but in reality listening all the time with a shrinking heart for the voices and the footfalls that she dreaded.  Lady Winterbourne, above all!  How unlucky!  It was only that morning that she had received a forwarded letter from that old friend, asking urgently for news and her address.

“Well, how did you like the speech to-night—­the speech?” said Mr. Lane, a genial Gladstonian member, more heavily weighted with estates than with ideas.  “It was splendid, wasn’t it?—­in the way of speaking.  Speeches like that are a safety-valve—­that’s my view of it.  Have ’em out—­all these ideas—­get ’em discussed!”—­with a good-humoured shake of the head for emphasis.  “Does nobody any harm and may do good.  I can tell you, Miss Boyce, the House of Commons is a capital place for taming these clever young men!—­you must give them their head—­and they make excellent fellows after a bit.  Why—­who’s this?—­My dear Lady Winterbourne!—­this is a sight for sair een!”

And the portly member with great effusion grasped the hand of a stately lady in black, whose abundant white hair caught the moonlight.

“Marcella!” cried a woman’s voice.

Yes—­there he was!—­close behind Lady Winterbourne.  In the soft darkness he and his party had run upon the two persons talking over the wall without an idea—­a suspicion.

She hurriedly withdrew herself from Lady Winterbourne, hesitated a second, then held out her hand to him.  The light was behind him.  She could not see his face in the darkness; but she was suddenly and strangely conscious of the whole scene—­of the great dark building with its lines of fairy-lit gothic windows—­the blue gulf of the river crossed by lines of wavering light—­the swift passage of a steamer with its illuminated saloon and crowded deck—­of the wonderful mixture of moonlight and sunset in the air and sky—­of this dark figure in front of her.

Their hands touched.  Was there a murmured word from him?  She did not know; she was too agitated, too unhappy to hear it if there was.  She threw herself upon Lady Winterbourne, in whom she divined at once a tremor almost equal to her own.

“Oh! do come with me—­come away!—­I want to talk to you!” she said incoherently under her breath, drawing Lady Winterbourne with a strong hand.

Lady Winterbourne yielded, bewildered, and they moved along the terrace.

“Oh, my dear, my dear!” cried the elder lady—­“to think of finding you here!  How astonishing—­how—­how dreadful!  No!—­I don’t mean that.  Of course you and he must meet—­but it was only yesterday he told me he had never seen you again—­since—­and it gave me a turn.  I was very foolish just now.  There now—­stay here a moment—­and tell me about yourself.”