Urgently as he had pleaded his cause, certain as he had been of ultimate success, he was almost overcome by her yielding. It seemed as if a fortress which a moment before had stood up between him and the sky--massive--invincible--the very type of the impregnable and everlasting, had suddenly crumbled into ruin at his feet. His belief in woman's pride and purity had never been very strong: yet he had believed that here and there, in this sinful world, invincible purity was to be found. But now he could never believe in any woman again. He had believed in this one to the last, although he had set himself to win her. Even when he had been breathing the poison of his florid eloquence into her ear--even when she had smiled at him, a willing listener--there had been something in her look, some sublime inexpressible air of stainless womanhood which had made an impassable distance between them. And now she had consented to run away with him: she had sunk in one moment to the level of all disloyal wives. His breast thrilled with pride and triumph at the thought of his conquest: and yet there was a touch of shame, shame that she could so fall. Emily St. Aubyn came over to the piano, and made an end of all confidential talk. "Now you are both here, do give us that delicious little duet of Lecocq's," she said: "we want something cheerful before we disperse. Good gracious Mrs. Tregonell, how bad you look," cried the young lady, suddenly, "as white as a ghost." "I am tired to death," answered Christabel, "I could not sing a note for the world." "Really, then we mustn't worry you. Thanks so much for that lovely Beethoven music--the 'Andante'--or the 'Pastorale'--or the 'Pathétique,' was it not? So sweet." "Good-night," said Christabel. "You won't think me rude if I am the first to go?" "Not at all. We are all going. Pack up your wools, mother. I know you have only been pretending to knit. We are all half asleep. I believe we have hardly strength to crawl upstairs." Candles were lighted, and Mrs. Tregonell and her guests dispersed, the party from the billiard-room meeting them in the hall. These lighter-minded people, the drama of whose existence was just now in the comedy stage, went noisily up to their rooms; but the Baron, who was usually among the most loquacious, retired almost in silence. Nor did Christabel do more than bid her guests a brief good-night. Neither Leonard nor his friend Jack Vandeleur had shown themselves since dinner. Whether they were still in the Squire's den, or whether they had retired to their own rooms no one knew. * * * * *