Lord Blythe was sitting alone in his library.  He was accustomed to sit alone, and rather liked it.  It was the evening after that of the Duchess of Deanshire’s reception; his wife had gone to another similar “crush,” but had graciously excused his attendance, for which he was honestly grateful.  He was old enough, at sixty-eight, to appreciate the luxury of peace and quietness,—­he had put on an old lounge coat and an easy pair of slippers, and was thoroughly enjoying himself in a comfortable arm-chair with a book and a cigar.  The book was by “Ena Armitage”—­the cigar, one of a choice brand known chiefly to fastidious connoisseurs of tobacco.  The book, however, was a powerful rival to the charm of the fragrant Havana—­for every now and again he allowed the cigar to die out and had to re-light it, owing to his fascinated absorption in the volume he held.  He was an exceedingly clever man—­deeply versed in literature and languages, and in his younger days had been a great student,—­he had read nearly every book of note, and was as familiar with the greatest authors as with his greatest friends, so that he was well fitted to judge without prejudice the merits of any new aspirant to literary fame.  But he was wholly unprepared for the power and the daring genius which stamped itself on every page of the new writer’s work,—­he almost forgot, while reading, whether it was man or woman who had given such a production to the world, so impressed was he by the masterly treatment of a simple subject made beautiful by a scholarly and incisive style.  It was literature of the highest kind,—­and realising this with every sentence he perused, it was with a shock of surprise that he remembered the personality of the author—­the unobtrusive girl who had been the “show animal” at Her Grace of Deanshire’s reception and dance.

“Positively, I can scarcely believe it!” he exclaimed sotto-voce—­ “That child I met last night actually wrote this amazing piece of work!  It’s almost incredible!  A nice child too,—­simple and perfectly natural,—­nothing of the blue-stocking about her.  Well, well!  What a career she’ll make!—­what a name!—­that is, if she takes care of herself and doesn’t fall in love, which she’s sure to do!  That’s the worst of women—­God occasionally gives them brains, but they’ve scarcely begun to use them when heart and sentiment step in and overthrow all reason.  Now, we men—­”

He paused,—­thinking.  There had been a time in his life—­long ago, when he was very young—­when heart and sentiment had very nearly overthrown reason in his own case—­and sometimes he was inclined to regret that such overthrow had been averted.

“For the moment it is perhaps worth everything else!” he mused—­ “But—­for the moment only!  The ecstasy does not last.”

His cigar had gone out again, and he re-lit it.  The clock on the mantelpiece struck twelve with a silvery clang, and almost at the same instant he heard the rustle of a silk gown and a light footstep,—­the door opened, and his wife appeared.