He left her, in a bewildered state; she had excited, impassioned him; but how strange it all was after those other scenes of love!  It seemed so of the earth; the words he had spoken rang over again in his ears, and stirred his blood to shame.  He could not say whether in truth he loved her or not; was it enough to feel that he could cherish her with much tenderness, and intoxicate himself in gazing on her perfect face?  Women are so different!  Emily had scarcely spoken when he made known to her his love; could he ever forget that awe-struck face, dimly seen in the moonlight?  Her words to the end had been few; it was her eyes that spoke.  Beatrice was noble, and had a heart of gold; was there not heaven in that ardour of hers, if only it had been his soul’s desire?  Henceforth it must be; she loved him, and he must not wrong her.  Alas! the old name, the old name alone, was still star-written....

He passed with her the afternoon of each Sunday.  Mrs. Birks’ house was a large one, and Beatrice had abundance of room to herself.  Thither Wilfrid took his way on the Sunday which we have reached, the day following his drawing-room triumph.  Already he was a little ashamed of himself; he was experiencing again the feeling which had come over him after his first speech to a political meeting.  As he went home that night, a demon in his head kept crying ‘Clap-trap! clap-trap!’ and there was no silencing the voice.  He had talked to the intelligence of the mob.  Now his talk had been addressed to—­the representatives of the mob; if the demon did not cry so loudly, it was only because he was weary of his thankless task.

Beatrice was a superb coquette—­but only for the man she loved.  For these Sunday afternoons she attired herself divinely; Wilfrid had learnt to expect a new marvel at each of his comings.  To-day she wore her favourite colour, a dark-blue.  Her rising to meet him was that of a queen who bath an honoured guest.  The jewels beneath her long dark lashes were as radiant as when first she heard him say, ‘I love you.’  All the impulses of her impetuous character had centred on this one end of her life.  Her eccentricities had tamed themselves in the long discipline of frustrated desire.  The breath of her body was love.  About her stole a barely perceptible perfume, which invaded the senses, which wrapped the heart in luxury.

Wilfrid dropped on one knee before her and kissed her hand.

‘You are in a happy mood,’ Beatrice said.  ’Who has been telling you the last flattery?’

‘I have seen no one to-day.  If I look happy—­should I not?’

She drew her finger along the line of his eyebrow.

‘How does your picture get on?’

’I have to give two sittings next week.  Thank goodness they are the last.’

‘Oh! why wasn’t it in time for the Academy!  But it must go next year.’

Wilfrid laughed as he seated himself opposite to her.

‘I am not sure, after all, that you are happy,’ she said, leaning her head a little aside as she gazed at him.  ’Now you are thoughtful.  I suppose you will be more and more thoughtful.’