Hector Bracondale was not a brute, just an ordinary Englishman of the world, who had lived and loved and seen many lands.

He read Theodora like an open book:  he knew exactly why she had talked about the weather after Jean d’Agreve.  It thrilled him to see her soft eyes dreamy and luminous when they first spoke of the book, and it flattered him when she changed the conversation.

As for Theodora, she analyzed nothing, she only felt that perhaps she ought not to speak about love to one of those people who could never be husbands.

Captain Fitzgerald, meanwhile, was making tremendous headway with the widow.  He flattered her vanity, he entertained her intelligence, and he even ended by letting her see she was causing him, personally, great emotion.

At last this promising evening came to an end.  The Russian Prince, with his American Princess, got up to say good-night, and gradually the party broke up, but not before Captain Fitzgerald had arranged to meet Mrs. McBride at Doucet’s in the morning, and give her the benefit of his taste and experience in a further shopping expedition to buy old bronzes.

“We can all breakfast together at Henry’s,” he said, with his grand manner, which included the whole party; and for one instant force of habit made Theodora’s heart sink with fear at the prospect of the bill, as it had often had to do in olden days when her father gave these royal invitations.  Then she remembered she had not been sacrificed to Josiah Brown for nothing, and that even if dear, generous papa should happen to be a little hard up again, a few hundred francs would be nothing to her to slip into his hand before starting.

The rest of the party, however, declined.  They were all busy elsewhere, except Lord Bracondale and the French Count—­they would come, with pleasure, they said.

Theodora wondered what Josiah would say.  Would he go? and if not, would he let her go?  This was more important.

“Then we shall meet at breakfast to-morrow,” Lord Bracondale said, as he helped her on with her cloak.  “That will give me something to look forward to.”

“Will it?” she said, and there was trouble in the two blue stars which looked up at him.  “Perhaps I shall not be able to come; my husband is rather an invalid, and—­”

But he interrupted her.

“Something tells me you will come; it is fate,” he said, and his voice was grave and tender.

And Theodora, who had never before had the opportunity of talking about destiny, and other agreeable subjects, with beautiful Englishmen who could only be—­lovers—­felt the red blood rush to her cheeks and a thrill flutter her heart.  So she quickened her steps and kept close to her father, who could have dispensed with this mark of affection.

“Dearest child,” he said, when they were seated in the brougham, “you are married now and should be able to look after yourself, without staying glued to my side so much—­it is rather bourgeois.”