"Be happy," says Cecil. "I am always quite composed at last moments; that is one of my principal charms. I never create sensations through vulgar excitement. I shall probably astonish you (and myself also) by my extreme coolness. In the meantime I"--smiling--"I own I should like a glass of sherry. What o'clock is it, Molly?" "Just seven." "Ah! he must be here now. How I wish it was over!" says Lady Stafford, with a little sinking of the heart. "And I am not yet dressed. I must run," exclaims Molly. "Good-bye, Cecil. Keep up your spirits, and remember above all things how well your dress becomes you." Two or three minutes elapse,--five,--and still Cecil cannot bring herself to descend. She is more nervous about this inevitable meeting than she cares to own. Will he be openly cold, or anxious to conciliate, or annoyed? The latter she greatly fears. What if he should suspect her of having asked Mr. Amherst to invite him? This idea torments her more than all the others, and chains her to her room. She takes up another bracelet and tries it on. Disliking the effect, she takes it off again. So she trifles, in fond hope of cheating time, and would probably be trifling now had not the handle of her door been boldly turned, the door opened, and a young man come confidently forward. His confidence comes to an untimely end as his astonished eyes rest on Cecil. "I beg your pardon, I'm sure," he says, beating a hasty retreat back to the landing outside. "I had no idea--I'm awfully sorry--but this room used to be mine." "It is mine now," says Cecil, accepting the situation at a glance, recognizing Sir Penthony without hesitation. He is a tall young man,--"lanky," as she has herself expressed him,--with thick brown hair, closely cropped. He has handsome dark eyes, with a rather mocking expression in them, and has a trick of shutting them slightly if puzzled or annoyed. His voice is extremely charming, though it has a distinct croak (that can hardly be called husky or hoarse) that is rather fascinating. His short upper lip is covered by a heavy brown moustache that hides a laughing mouth. He is aristocratic and good-looking, without being able to lay claim to actual beauty. Just now he is overwhelmed with confusion, as Cecil, feeling compelled thereto, steps forward, smiling, to reassure him. "You have made a mistake,--you have lost your way," she says, in a tone that trembles ever such a little in spite of her efforts to be calm. "To my shame I confess it," he says, laughing, gazing with ill-concealed admiration at this charming azure vision standing before him. "Foolishly I forgot to ask for my room, and ran up the stairs, feeling certain that the one that used to be mine long ago must be so still. Can you forgive me?" "I think I can. Meantime, if you are Sir Penthony Stafford, your room lies there," pointing to the last door opening on the corridor.