“You will not forget to come and see me, my dear,” cried Lady Adelaide, with a parting wave of her fan as she moved away, leaving the girl sitting there, silent and motionless.  People brushed by her as they left the room, but she paid no heed.  Mrs. Vavasour spoke to her as she passed on her way to supper, but Madelon did not answer.  All at once she sprang up, looking round as if longing to escape; as she did so, her eyes met Graham’s; he was standing close to her, behind her chair, and something in his expression, something of sympathy, of compassion perhaps, made her cheeks flame, and her eyes fill with sudden tears of resentment and humiliation.  He had heard them, he had heard every word that had been said, and he was pitying her!  What right had he, what did she want with his compassion?  She met his glance with one of defiance, and then turned her back upon him; she must remain where she was, she could not go out of the room alone, but, at any rate, he should not have the opportunity of letting her see that he pitied her.

Horace, however, who had in fact heard every word of the conversation, and perhaps understood Madelon’s looks well enough, came up to her, as she stood alone, watching the people stream by her out of the room.

“There is supper going on somewhere,” he said; “will you come and have some, or shall I bring you an ice here?”

“Neither,” she answered, quickly.  “I—­I don’t want anything, and I would rather stay here.”

“Perhaps you are right,” he said.  “We shall have the room to ourselves in a minute, and then it will be cooler.”

In fact, the room was nearly deserted—­almost every one had gone away to supper.  Madelon stood leaning against the window, half hidden by the curtain; the sudden gleam of defiance, of resentment against Horace, had faded; it had vanished at the sound of his kind voice, which she loved better than any other in the world.  But there were tears of passion still in her eyes; her little moment of joyousness and triumph had been so cruelly dashed from her; she felt hurt, humiliated, almost exasperated.

“How hot it is!” she said, glancing round impatiently.  “Where is every one gone?  Cannot we go too?  No, not in to supper.  What is going on in that little room?  I have not been there.”

“It leads into the garden, I think,” answered Graham.  “Shall we see?  Wait a moment.  I will fetch you a shawl, and then, if you like, we can go out.”

He strode off quickly.  There was vexation and perplexity in his kind heart too.  He understood well enough how the girl had been wounded—­his little Madelon, for whom it would have seemed a small thing to give his right hand, could such a sacrifice have availed her aught.  And he could do nothing.  His compassion insulted her, his interference she would have resented; no, he could do nothing to protect his little girl.  So he thought as he made his way into the cloak-room to extract a shawl.  He was going his way in the world, and she hers, and she might be suffering, lonely, unprotected, for aught that he could do, unless—­unless——­