Returning wearily and long before the usual time from a brilliant rout, greatly to the surprise of Violet, and not a little to the vexation of that young lady, Clare was seated alone in her own room, lost in thought and unwilling to consult poor sad Ida, who was now fast asleep. It was long past midnight; the throng of foot passengers was gone, but the rattle of carriages was incessant as if the time were mid-day. She had unclasped her ornaments as if they oppressed her, and forgetful of her maid, who yawned fitfully and impatiently in an adjoining room, she sat with her rounded chin placed in the palm of a white hand, with her dark eyes fixed on vacancy. The soft air of the summer night--or morning, rather--came gently through the lace curtains of an open window, bringing with it the delicious perfume of flowers from the jardinière in the balcony; and perhaps the fragrance of these blossoms, and the half-hushed hum of the streets without, 'stole through the portals of the senses,' and lured her into waking dreams of the past and of the future. At the ball she had quitted so early, her father, who had been making himself appear somewhat absurd by his senile attentions to Desmond's rather _passée_ sister, Evelyn, had actually _spoken_ to her of Trevor Chute, and in unwonted friendly terms; and the flood of thought this episode had called up within her, conflicting with the half-decided addresses of Desmond, partly drew her home, to think and ponder over her future, if a future she had that was worth considering now. So far as monetary matters were concerned, the same barriers existed still between her and poor Trevor Chute as when Sir Carnaby broke off the engagement as cruelly as he would have 'scratched' a horse; and then the settlements which the great, languid guardsman could make were known to be unexceptional. These did not weigh much with gentle, yet proud, and unambitious Clare; but she knew that they had vast weight with her worldly-minded father, so why torment herself by thinking of Trevor Chute at all? But thoughts came thick and fast in spite of reason and cool reflection, and the girl sank into a reverie that was far from being a pleasant one. But what if Trevor Chute had learned to love another! She bit her lovely nether lip, which was like a scarlet camellia bud, for an instant; her dark eyes flashed, then drooped, and she smiled softly, confidently, and perhaps triumphantly, as she said, half audibly: 'Ah, no--he loves me still; poor Trevor! I saw it in his eyes--I heard it in the cadence of his voice, and I never was mistaken! He loves me still--but to what purpose, _to what end_?' Tears started to her eyes; but she crushed her emotion, and, with a quick, impatient little hand, rang for her waiting-maid. CHAPTER VI. SIR CARNABY COLLINGWOOD.