“We’ll begin the revelry!” he said, and in another moment she felt herself floating deliciously, as it were, in his arms—­her little feet flying over the polished floor, his hand warmly clasping her slim soft body—­and her heart fluttered wildly like the beating wings of a snared bird as she fell into the mystic web woven by the strange and pitiless loom of destiny.  The threads were already tangling about her—­but she made no effort to escape.  She was happy in her dream; she imagined that her Ideal had been found in the Real.

CHAPTER IV

The first waltz over, Jocelyn led his partner out of the ball-room.

“Come into the garden,” he said.  “It’s quite a real garden for London—­and I know every inch of it.  We’ll find a quiet corner and sit down and rest.”

She answered nothing—­she was flushed, and breathing quickly from the excitement of the dance, and he paused on his way to pick up a light wrap he found on one of the sofas, and put it round her shoulders.

“You mustn’t catch a chill,” he went on.  “But it’s not a cold night—­in fact it’s very close and sultry—­almost like thunder.  A little air will be good for us.”

They went together, pacing along slowly—­she meanwhile thinking of her previous walk in that same garden!—­what would he, Amadis de Jocelyn, say of it and of her “mother” if he knew!  He looked at her sideways now and then, curiously moved by mingled pity, admiration and desire,—­the cruelty latent in every man made him long to awaken the first spark of passion in that maidenly soul,—­ and with the full consciousness of a powerful personality, he was perfectly aware that he could do so if he chose.  But he waited, playing with the fire of his own inclinations, and talking lightly and charmingly of things which he knew would interest her sufficiently to make her, in her turn, talk to him naturally and candidly, thereby displaying more or less of her disposition and temperament.  With every word she spoke he found her more and more fascinating—­she had a quaint directness of speech which was extremely refreshing after the half-veiled subtleties conveyed in the often dubious conversation of the women he was accustomed to meet in society—­while there was no doubt she was endowed with extraordinary intellectual grasp and capacity.  Her knowledge of things artistic and literary might, perhaps, have been termed archaic, but it was based upon the principles which are good and true for all time—­and as she told him quite simply and unaffectedly of her studies by herself among the old books which had belonged to the “Sieur Amadis” of Briar Farm, he was both touched and interested.

“So you made quite a friend of the Sieur Amadis!” he said.  “He was your teacher and guide!  I’m jealous of him!”

She laughed softly.  “He was a spirit,” she said—­“You are a man.”

“Well, his spirit has had a good innings with you!” and, taking her hand, he drew it within his arm—­“I bear his name, and it’s time I came in somewhere!”