“Always? I know not. It _may_ chance to include that natural correlation of sympathies, that perfect soul affinity, which was no doubt in the original scheme of things before the Fall. Blest, immeasurably blest the nuptials in that case; yet how rare a coincidence! A man and woman, both virgin, both unspoiled, may here and there find, as predestined, their rapturous conjunction, and so achieve themselves in flawless unity. But, for the most part, we must be resigned to forgo that heavenly encounter until, caught fast in alien bonds, we meet and recognize for the first time our elective affinities. Too late, then? I cannot say. Only is it possible that Heaven could blame us for consummating its own ideal at the expense of the social conventions made by man? Ah! if we could only, in the first instance, be safe to meet with her, the heartfelt, the unmistakable, the lovely ordained perfecter of our imperfect beings! What happiness would be added to the world and what sin avoided!” His very voice was like a wooing confidence. He bent to gaze into her face. “Ill-mated! Alike in that, at least,” he said, and sought her hand again. “Come, sweet soul, be seated, and let me play to you once more.” Kate started, as if to an electric shock. “No, your Highness.” “You will not?” “I must not. Let me call my brother.” He intercepted her. “Say at least I may visit you again--see you--speak to you.” He spoke low and vehemently. “No, no,” she said, almost weeping--“not now. O, let me go, Sir! I was wrong to complain--wrong to encourage you.” She made past him, and hurried to the open window. “Richard!” she cried. “Richard! How long you are! His Highness waits the flowers with impatience.” Arran had no choice but to obey. She saw his companion, with a pert laugh and toss of the head, thrust the nosegay into his hand, and watch him, with a mocking lip, as he retreated from her. And the next moment he was in the room. But, for the Duke, he was quite content with his progress. She had put her confidence in his keeping, and, for a sound beginning, that meant much. CHAPTER XIII The Earl of Chesterfield entered his drawing-room in a very morose frame of mind, which was scarcely improved by his discovery of a young lady already seated there before him. She was yawning over an illuminated missal; but, at sight of the intruder, she clapped the volume down with a bang, stretched, put her arms behind her head, and smiled with an air of relieved welcome. Any male to Moll was better than none. “Come along,” she said. “Don’t be shy of me.” He was pacing forward, his hands behind his back, and stopped to regard her sourly, his head askew. “Yes? You remarked----?” he said. Mrs. Davis went into a noiseless shake of laughter. “Don’t do that,” she cried, “or you’ll give yourself a stiff neck. What a face, sure! Has my lady been putting bitter aloes on your nails, naughty boy, to stop your biting ’em?”