Rockhurst took Diana’s hand from his son’s hold, where it still rested unconsciously. Many thoughts were in his mind, as strangely conflicting as the forces in his nature. His keen knowledge of women and their ways told him that no woman who loved a man would have let her fingers lie so listlessly in his grasp. “My poor lad—she has no heart for him,” cried the father in him. But the man in him, as yet unsubdued by years or sorrow, rejoiced. Here was one who, nameless to him, had yet shone like a star in his troubled sky this many a month, for the sake of one hour, snatched, sweet, pure, sacred, out of an unworthily spent life. With all that was best in him, he had wished to keep her unknown, unattainable; and here she was, brought back by fate into his path! No one could have guessed at the storm seething within him after his moment of self-betrayal. His usual polished composure governed face, voice, and gesture. “My son has told me much about you, madam, truly,” he was saying; “and yet I see how little he has been able to tell me.” ’Twas the merest idle compliment. The words were as artificial as the tone. Diana courtesied in silence. Not thus did she remember her grave, chivalrous protector in an hour of doubt and peril. Nay, then, that memory had best be effaced from her mind, since it was his pleasure to deny it. Perchance (and the thought was more galling to her pride!) though she had so fondly kept his image in the deep recesses of her soul, hers had already faded from his thoughts. “Indeed, my lord,” she began, rallying her spirits, “I too—” but she paused, for her brother and Lionel Ratcliffe were approaching, the latter with his cool air of indifference, the other all agape with curiosity. Harry instantly took the younger man by the arm to present him to his father. “One moment,” rebuked Rockhurst; “the lady is speaking. Pray, madam?” “Oh, my lord,” said she, with formal grace, “the poor sentence was, certes, never worth such courteous attention. I was but about to say that I, too, have heard of your lordship often.” “Aye? From what source?” he asked, and a shadow fell on his face. But she was smiling. “From this source,” she answered him, waving her roses toward Harry. “Ah,” cried Rockhurst, laughing upon a sigh, “no doubt the rogue has full wearied you with the subject.” “Alas,” she responded quickly, “must I not take this reproach to myself?” Lionel Ratcliffe pulled young Rockhurst by the sleeve. “What, all agaze and bewildered, Harry? Never fear, these are but Court wits in a friendly bout. Clink, clink, the sparks fly. But, hark to you, beware an unfoiled weapon.” The boy withdrew from his touch with disfavour, and Rockhurst turned upon the whisperer a haughty look of enquiry. “Well met again, my lord,” cried Ratcliffe, swaggering a step forward and saluting with a cavalier sweep of his hat. Rockhurst returned the courtesy with a ceremonious inclination. “Have we met before, sir?” he enquired.