all up, shining upon the lightness of their faces, and the dresses of the ladies, as they stood grouped about the piano. Behind, Mr. Hunstanton’s darkly attired group of men gave an agreeable balance to the picture. In front of Diana there were but three figures. Mrs. Norton and Reginald, with a table between them, covered with the glories of the coloured cards, which were repeated in the rose-coloured ribbons of her cap; and standing quite alone in front of the dim profundity of a great old mirror--Pandolfini. He was the only one who was alone as she was, though not by design, like Diana. The glass was so old and so dim that it almost shrouded him, giving its background of mysterious reflection to make even his solid figure look unreal. But one thing about him was very real, which was that his eyes were fixed upon herself. It was an inadvertent moment, and Mr. Hunstanton’s sudden announcement of approaching departure had brought a certain agitation into the atmosphere. To Diana, who had taken root in the friendly place, notwithstanding her consciousness that her stay could not be long, the feeling was painful--but to Pandolfini it was like the crush of overthrow. He had known it, he said to himself--of course he had known it--but it had not appeared such an utter and miserable conclusion of all hopes, and revolution in life. The room had contracted round him, and the lights grown dim, just as he felt the firmament itself would contract, and the sun grow dim to him, when she was gone--and he had forgotten himself. He had not been able to talk, to join in what everybody was doing, so long as this feeling that the earth had opened under his feet, ready to swallow him up and all things, was foremost in his mind. He had had his full of revolutions: he knew what they were, and how men could live through them, and the vulgar placidity of every day overcome all the violence that could be done in life. But here was a revolution which could not be got over. Yes, yes, he said to himself drearily, as, under cover of the music and the movement, he put himself thus behind-backs, and allowed his eyes to rest upon Diana with a half-despairing intentness. _Si! si!_ it could be got over. If a man is hacked limb by limb he has to bear it, making no unseemly outcries; but still the thought of what it would be, the going out of all sweet lights and hopes, the settling down of darkness, the horror of something taken away which could never be replaced, appalled his very soul. What an irony it was, what a cruelty of fate! He had been well enough before, contenting himself with his existence, thinking of no Diana, satisfied with the life which had never known her. But now!--without knowing, Pandolfini gazed at her out of the shadows with eyes that glowed and burned, and with a longing and fixedness very startling to her pensive calm, as suddenly she turned to him with a half-smile and met his look!