Lily was more beautiful than usual, the heat and the pleasure of seeing her admirer having flushed her cheeks. He was penetrated with her sweetness, and the hand laid on his arm thrilled him. Where should he take her? Unfortunately the staircase was in stone; servants were busy in the drawing-room. "How beautifully Mr. Escott plays the violin!" The melodious strain reeked through the doorways, filling the passage. "That is Stradella's 'Chanson d'Eglise.' He always plays it; I'm sick of it." "Yes, but I'm not. Do not let us go far, I should like to listen." "I thought you would have preferred to talk with me." Her manner did not encourage him to repeat his words, and he waited, uncertain what he should say or do. When the piece was over, he said-- "We had to turn my bedroom into a retiring-room. I'm afraid we shall not be alone." "That does not matter; my mother does not approve of young girls sitting out dances." "But your mother isn't here." "I should not think of doing anything I knew she did not wish me to do." The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Muchross with several lords, and he was with difficulty dissuaded from an attempt to swarm up the columns of the wonderful bed. The room was full of young girls and barristers gathered from the various courts. Some had stopped before the great Christ. A girl had touched the suspended silver lamp and spoken of "dim religious light"; but by no word or look did Lily admit that she had been there before, and Mike felt it would be useless to remind her that she had. She was the same as she was every Wednesday in her mother's drawing-room. And the party had been given solely with a view of withdrawing her from its influence. What was he to say to this girl? Was he to allow all that had passed between them to slip? Never had he felt so ill at ease. At last, fixing his eyes upon her, he said-- "Let us cease this trifling. Perhaps you do not know how painful it is to me. Tell me, will you come and see me? Do not let us waste time. I never see you alone now." "I could not think of coming to see you; it would not be right." "But you did come once." "That was because I wanted to see where you lived. Now that I know, there would be no reason for coming again." "You have not forgiven me. If you knew how I regret my conduct! Try and understand that it was for love of you. I was so fearful of losing you. I have lost you; I know it!" He cursed himself for the irresolution he had shown. Had he made her his mistress she would now be hanging about his neck. "I forgive you. But I wish you would not speak of love in connection with your conduct; when you do, all my liking for you dies." "How cruel! Then I shall never kiss you again. Was my kiss so disagreeable? Do you hate to kiss me?" "I don't know that I do, but it is not right. If I were married to you it would be different." The conversation fell. Then realizing that he was compromising his chances, he said--