Then Chute began to feel more than ever the miserable awkwardness of the situation, and of the task which had been set him; for when a man and woman have ever been more to each other than mere friends, they can never meet in the world simply as acquaintances again. For a minute he looked earnestly at Clare, and thought that never before, even in the buried past that seemed so distant now--yet only four years ago--had she seemed more lovely than now. The blood of a long line of fair and highly bred ancestresses had given to her features that, though perfectly regular and beautifully cut, were full of expression and vivacity, though times there were when a certain fixity or statue-like repose that pervaded them seemed to enhance their beauty. Her eyes and hair were wonderfully dark when contrasted with the pale purity of her complexion, and the colour and form of her lips, though full and pouting, were expressive of softness, of sweetness, and even of passionate tenderness, but without giving the slightest suggestion of aught that was sensuous; for if the heart of Clare Collingwood was passionate and affectionate, its outlet was rather in her eyes than in the form of her mouth. And now, while gazing upon her and striving hard to utter the merest commonplaces with an unfaltering tongue, Trevor Chute could but ponder how often he had kissed those lips, those thick dark tresses, and her charming hands, on which his eyes had to turn as on a picture now. His eyes, however, were speaking eyes; they were full of tenderness and truth, and showed, though proper pride and the delicacy of their mutual position forbade the subject, how his tongue longed to take up the dear old story he had told her in the past years, ere cold worldliness parted them so roughly, and, as it seemed, for ever. On the other hand, Clare Collingwood--perfectly high-bred, past girlhood, a woman of the world, and fully accustomed to society, if she received him now without any too apparent emotion, by the delicate flush that flitted across her beautiful face, and the almost imperceptible constraint in her graceful yet--shall we say it?--startled manner, imparted the flattering conviction to her visitor that he was far from indifferent to her still, and her eyes filled alternately with keen interest, with alarm, affection, and sorrow, as she heard, for the first time, all the details of Beverley's death in that distant hill cantonment, a place of which she had not the slightest conception. 'Will Mrs. Beverley see me?' he concluded. 'Though much of an invalid now, poor Ida undoubtedly will; but you must not tell her all that you have told to me,' said Clare, in her earnestness almost unconsciously laying her hand on his arm, which thrilled beneath her touch. 'Dearest mamma is, of course you know, no more. We lost her since--since you left England.'