“Must we go back in those stuffy carriages,” she said, in a low voice. “Can we not walk, aunt?” “Certainly you may,” replied Miss Amelia. “But I think I will ride; these night dews are rather treacherous, I’m sure,” and she dropped her head on her shoulder, and simpered, “Mr. Bradstone will be kind enough to take care of me.” Bartley Bradstone’s face would have supplied a fine study for a painter of character, but he was helpless; and with a stifled oath, gave her his arm. The two Penstone girls, of course, drew back, and declined, with distinct emphasis, the mere idea of riding. “All right, then,” said Bertie. “Come on!” and the young people set out. Annie and Mary, in their eagerness to vent their amazement and pent-up enthusiasm, caught him timidly, but effectually, by either arm, and began at once: “Oh, Lord Granville, did you--now, did you ever hear anything like it? Wasn’t it simply wonderful?” etc., and poor Bertie, closely arrested, saw his goddess walk on with Faradeane. He did not offer his arm, and they went on in silence for some minutes. Any attempt to describe the varied emotions which swept through Olivia’s sensitive heart would be impossible. The spell of his voice was on her still; the fascination of his dark, handsome face still held her in thrall. Women admire men for many qualities; their strength, their good looks, their courage, their art, sometimes--but not often, alas!--their wisdom. And to-night, under the moonlight, Olivia was full of admiration for this man whom the gods had dowered with so many gifts. He had proved his courage in risking his life for Bessie, his face was handsome enough to haunt the dreams of a sculptor, and to-night he had exercised a power of imagination and voice and influence that had moved a crowded audience. Think of it! An impressionable girl, full of poetry, and ready as wax to receive an impression, and wonder not that as she walked beside him she felt magnetized, attracted, fascinated. She was pale still, still slightly tremulous, and her breath came slowly and heavily. Lines of the exquisite poem into which he had breathed life and reality still rang in her ears. She could find nothing to say that would not have sounded to her ears hideously commonplace. And it was he who first spoke. “Miss Vanley,” he said, “I have an uncomfortable feeling of guilt.” She looked up at him instantly, with that look which a woman turns upon the man on whom her mind is fixed. “Guilt!” she echoed. He smiled at the almost tragic tones of her voice. “Yes, I have an uneasy feeling that I have made you uncomfortable with my uncanny performance.” “No,” she said, slowly, “not uncomfortable.” “It was a stupid thing to do,” he went on. “Stupid and unsuitable to the bulk of the audience; but my excuse--well, my only excuse is that I knew no other piece, and was too--well, too lazy to learn any other. I will never recite it again.”