Silence has sunk on all around. One might hear a pin drop so intense has it become. Every one is on a tiptoe of expectation. The sight of that telegram has set every heart beating. “Ladies and gentlemen,” calls out the duke, raising it on high, “I have good news for you all. This is a telegram from my dear friend, Hector D’Estrange. He has beaten his opponent by 2,330 votes, and is now member for the Douglasdale division of Dumfriesshire.” What a shout goes up! Men and women cheer again and again. It is felt that the pinnacle of fame on which that young man rests has gone up higher in the scale of merited success. Even his enemies cannot help feeling glad, for Hector D’Estrange is a name to conjure by. “He’ll be Prime Minister before another year or two are gone,” exclaims Sir Randolph Fisticuffs, just a little jealously to a lady by his side. She looks at him earnestly as she replies, “God bless the day when he is! We shall get justice then.” “Oh!” he answers pettishly, “that’s just it. He has set all you women discontented with your lot; he has lit a fire which won’t be readily extinguished. Mark my words, he’ll burn his fingers over it yet, if he don’t take care.” “Not he,” she answers stoutly; “Hector D’Estrange knows what he is about. He has won the devoted, undying love of hundreds, nay, thousands and tens of thousands of women, for his brave, chivalrous exposure of their wrongs, and defence of their rights.” Sir Randolph Fisticuffs laughs. “You ought to join the Woman’s Volunteer Corps,” he observes sarcastically. “Ought I?” She opens her grey eyes wide. “As it happens, I joined it a year ago.” “The devil you did!” he exclaims in a surprised tone. “So you are a Hector D’Estrangeite, eh?” “I am,” she answers proudly. The music has recommenced; a dreamy waltz is sounding through the room; every one has begun dancing again. Only the dowagers are at rest. Not a man appears unoccupied. Yes, one is, though. It is the young Duke of Ravensdale himself. He is leaning against a bank of moss and roses apparently watching the busy throng. There is a far-away look in his eyes, however, which tells that his thoughts have flown beyond the giddy pastime of the hour. He is thinking of his friend’s latest triumph, and what will be the outcome of it all. For Evelyn Ravensdale’s heart has gone out to Hector D’Estrange, and he loves him with that devoted, admiring love which some men have been known to inspire in others. “Just look at the duke,” whispers Lady Tabbycat to her friend Mrs. Moreton Savage; “one would think there wasn’t a pretty girl in the room, or a heart aching for him, by the way he stands there doing nothing and saying nothing. I can’t think what makes him so shy and reserved. He was all fire just now when he was telling us of Hector D’Estrange’s triumph; and now just look at him, my dear.”