It was on him.  Strange are the woman’s eyes which can unoffendingly assume the privilege to dwell on such a living object as a man without become gateways for his return look, and can seem in pursuit of thoughts while they enfold.  They were large dark eyes, eyes of southern night.  They sped no shot; they rolled forth an envelopment.  A child among toys, caught to think of other toys, may gaze in that way.  But these were a woman’s eyes.

He gave Lord Ormont his whole face, as an auditor should.  He was interested besides, as he told a ruffled conscience.  He fell upon the study of his old hero determinedly.

The pain of a memory waking under pillows, unable to do more than strain for breath, distracted his attention.  There was a memory:  that was all he knew.  Or else he would have lashed himself for hanging on the beautiful eyes of a woman.  To be seeing and hearing his old hero was wonder enough.

Recollections of Lady Charlotte’s plain hints regarding the lady present resolved to the gross retort, that her eyes were beautiful.  And he knew them—­there lay the strangeness.  They were known beautiful eyes, in a foreign land of night and mist.

Lord Ormont was discoursing with racy eloquence of our hold on India:  his views in which respect were those of Cuper’s boys.  Weyburn ventured a dot-running description of the famous ride, and out flew an English soldier’s grievance.  But was not the unjustly-treated great soldier well rewarded, whatever the snubs and the bitterness, with these large dark eyes in his house, for his own?  Eyes like these are the beginning of a young man’s world; they nerve, inspire, arm him, colour his life; he would labour, fight, die for them.  It seemed to Weyburn a blessedness even to behold them.  So it had been with him at the early stage; and his heart went swifter, memory fetched a breath.  Memory quivered eyelids, when the thought returned—­of his having known eyes as lustrous.  First lights of his world, they had more volume, warmth, mystery—­were sweeter.  Still, these in the room were sisters to them.  They quickened throbs; they seemed a throb of the heart made visible.

That was their endowment of light and lustre simply, and the mystical curve of the lids.  For so they could look only because the heart was disengaged from them.  They were but heavenly orbs.

The lady’s elbow was on an arm of her chair, her forefinger at her left temple.  Her mind was away, one might guess; she could hardly be interested in talk of soldiering and of foreign army systems, jealous English authorities and officials, games, field-sports.  She had personal matters to think of.

Adieu until to-morrow to the homes she inhabited!  The street was a banishment and a relief when Weyburn’s first interview with Lord Ormont was over.

He rejoiced to tell his previous anticipations that he had not been disappointed; and he bade hero-worshippers expect no gilded figure.  We gather heroes as we go, if we are among the growing:  our constancy is shown in the not discarding of our old ones.  He held to his earlier hero, though he had seen him, and though he could fancy he saw round him.