“Oh yes, at children’s parties; but never since I have grown up—­’come out,’ I mean.  Oh, Philip, is there anything in life so delightful as one’s first ball?  I wish you would come out with us sometimes.  I should like to dance with you again now.”

“Ah,” he said, “my dancing days are over.  I am a wallflower, Eve, now; and my only use at balls is to fetch and carry for the chaperons.”

“Philip!” she cried reproachfully, “what a dreadful thing to say!  Besides, you used to dance so splendidly.”

“Did I?” he asked; “I expect you would be less lenient now.  Yes, I will have another cup, please.”

She filled it, and he took it from her in silence, wondering how he could least obtrusively gain the knowledge of her mind he sought.  He had said to himself that if he could find her alone, it would be so easy; just a word, an accent, would tell him how far she really cared.  But now that she was actually with him, it had become strangely difficult.  Very sadly he reflected that she had grown out of his knowledge; away from her, she rested in his memory as a child whom he could help.  The actual presence of this young girl with the deep eyes, in the first flush of her womanhood, corrected him; an intolerable weight sealed his tongue, forbidding him to utter Lightmark’s name, greatly as he desired.  He racked himself for delicate circumlocutions, and it was only at last, by a gigantic effort, when he realized that the afternoon waned, while he wasted an unique occasion in humorous commonplace, that he broke almost brutally into Eve’s disquisitions on her various festivities to ask, blushing like a girl, if Lightmark’s picture progressed.

“I have had only a few sittings,” she admitted, “and I expect they will be the last here.  Perhaps they will be continued abroad.  You know Mr. Lightmark is going to meet us in Switzerland, perhaps.”

“You will like that?” suggested Rainham gravely.

She looked into her cup, beating a tattoo on the carpet with her little foot nervously.

“Yes,” she said, after a minute, “I think so.”

There was nothing in her words, her tone, to colour this bare statement of a simple fact.  Only a second later, as if in a sudden need of confidence, a resumption of her old childish habit towards him, she raised her eyes to his, and in their clear, gray depths, before they drooped again beneath the long lashes, he read her secret.  No words could have told him more plainly that she loved Lightmark—­that Dick had merely to speak.  Their silence only lasted a moment; but it seemed to Rainham, who had not shifted his position or moved a muscle, that it stretched over an interminable space of time.  It was curiously intangible, and yet even then he realized that it would remain with its least accessories in his mind one of those trivial, indelible photographs which last a lifetime.  The smell of mignonette that spread in from the window-box through the turquoise-blue