our love sacred in our hearts, my darling, and the knowledge of it will comfort and soothe the anguish of separation.  Beloved one, I am always thinking of you, and I want to tell you my vision of heaven would be to possess you for my wife.  My happiest dream will always be that you are there—­at Bracondale—­queen of my home and my heart, darling. My darling!  But however it may be, whether you decide to chase away every thought of me or not, I want you to know I will go on worshipping you, and doing my utmost to serve you with my life.—­For ever and ever your devoted lover.”

And then he signed it “Hector,” and not “Bracondale.”

The widow had promised to give it into Theodora’s own hand on the morrow.

He added a postscript: 

“I want you to meet my mother and my sister in London.  Will you let me arrange it?  I think you will like Anne.  And oh, more than all I want you to come to Bracondale.  Write me your answer that I may have your words to keep always.”

* * * * *

Mrs. McBride came round in the morning to the private hotel in the Avenue du Bois, to ask the exact time of the dinner-party, she said.  She wanted to see for herself how things were going.  And the look in Theodora’s eyes grieved her.

“I am afraid it has gone rather deeply with her,” she mused.  “Now what can I do?”

Theodora was unusually sweet and gentle, and talked brightly of how glad she was for her father’s happiness, and of their plans about England; but all the time Jane McBride was conscious that the something which had made her eyes those stars of gracious happiness was changed—­instead there was a deep pathos in them, and it made her uncomfortable.

“I wish to goodness I had let well alone, and not tried to give her a happy day,” she said to herself.

Just before leaving, she slipped Hector’s letter into Theodora’s hand.  “Lord Bracondale asked me to give you this, my child,” she said, and she kissed her.  “And if you will write the answer, will you post it to him to the Ritz.”

All over Theodora there rushed an emotion when she took the letter.  Her hands trembled, and she slipped it into the bodice of her dress.  She would not be able to read it yet.  She was waiting, all ready dressed, for Josiah to enter any moment, to take their usual walk in the Bois.

Then she wondered what would the widow think of her action, slipping it into her dress—­but it was done now, and too late to alter.  And their eyes met, and she understood that her future step-mother was wide awake and knew a good many things.  But the kind woman put her arm round her and kissed her soft cheek.

“I want you to be my little daughter, Theodora,” she said.  “And if you have a heartache, dear, why I have had them, too—­and I’d like to comfort you.  There!”

XV

The dinner-party went off with great eclat.  Had not all the guests read in the New York Herald that morning of Captain Fitzgerald’s good-fortune?  He with his usual savoir-vivre had arranged matters to perfection.  The company was chosen from among the nicest of his and Mrs. McBride’s friends.