“It sounds odd; in fact, I could scarcely believe it until I got his letter of explanation. I’ll show it to you. Here it is.” I read James Orlebar Cloyster’s letter with care. It was not particularly long, but I wish I had a copy of it; for it is the finest work in an imaginative vein that has ever been penned. “Masterly!” I exclaimed involuntarily. “Yes, isn’t it?” she echoed. “Enables one to grasp thoroughly how the mistake managed to occur.” “Has Eva seen it?” “Yes.” “I notice he mentions five years as being about the period——” “Yes; it’s rather a long engagement, but, of course, she’ll wait, she loves him so.” Eva now entered the room. When I caught sight of her I remembered I had pictured her crushed and humiliated. I had expected to gloat over a certain dewiness of her eyes, a patient drooping of her lips. I will say plainly there was nothing of that kind about Eva tonight. She had decided to go to the ball as Peter Pan. The costume had rather scandalised old Mr. Gunton-Cresswell, a venerable Tory who rarely spoke except to grumble. Even Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell, who had lately been elected to the newly-formed _Les Serfs d’Avenir_, was inclined to deprecate it. But I was sure Eva had chosen the better part. The dress suited her to perfection. Her legs are the legs of a boy. As I looked at her with concentrated hatred, I realised I had never seen a human soul so radiant, so brimming with _espièglerie_, so altogether to be desired. “Why, Julian, is it you. This _is_ good of you!” It was evident that the past was to be waived. I took my cue. “Thanks, Eva,” I said; “it suits you admirably.” Events at this point move quickly. Another card of invitation is produced. Would I care to use it, and take Eva to the ball? “But I’m not in fancy dress.” Overruled. Fancy dress not an essential. Crowds of men there in ordinary evening clothes. So we drove off. We hardly exchanged a syllable. No one has much to say just before a dance. I looked at Eva out of the corner of my eye, trying to discover just what it was in her that attracted men. I knew her charm, though I flattered myself that I was proof against it. I wanted to analyse it. Her photograph is on the table before me as I write. I look at it critically. She is not what I should describe as exactly a type of English beauty. You know the sort of beauty I mean? Queenly, statuesque, a daughter of the gods, divinely fair. Her charm is not in her features. It is in her expression. Tonight, for instance, as we drove to the ball, there sparkled in her eyes a light such as I had never seen in them before. Every girl is animated at a ball, but this was more than mere animation. There was a latent devilry about her; and behind the sparkle and the glitter a film, a mist, as it were, which lent almost a pathos to her appearance. The effect it had on me was to make me tend to forget that I hated her. We arrive. I mutter something about having the pleasure.