Presently Leycester put down his cup and walked to the window, and drawing the curtain aside, stood looking out at the night. There was a flush of color in his face, owing perhaps to the Margaux, and a strange light in his eyes. What did he see in the darkness? Was it the spirit of Stella to whom he had said farewell? He stood wrapt in thought, the buzz of conversation and the occasional laugh of Charlie behind him; then suddenly he turned and went up to the silent figure with the while flower in its bosom and its hair, and sat down beside her. "Are you better?" he asked. She just glanced at him, and smiled slowly. "Yes, I am quite well. It was only a headache." "Are you well enough to come on to the terrace--there is a terrace, is there not?" "A balcony." "Will you come? It is quite warm." She rose at once, and he took up a shawl and put it round her, and offered her his arm. She just laid her finger-tips on it, and he led her to the window. She drew back, and smiled over her shoulder. "It is a capital offence to open a window at night." "I forgot," he said. "You see, I am so great a stranger, that I fail to remember the habits of my own people. Will you show me the way round?" "This way," she said; and opening a small door, she took him into a conservatory, and thence to the balcony. They were silent for a moment or two--he looking at the stars, she with eyes bent to the ground. He was fighting for resolution and determination, she was silently waiting, knowing what was passing in his heart, and wondering, with a throbbing heart, whether her hour of triumph had come. She had stooped to the very dust to win him, to snatch him from that other girl who had ensnared him; but as she stood now and glanced at him--at the tall, graceful figure, and the handsome face, all the handsomer in her eyes for its haggardness--she felt that she could have stooped still lower if it had been possible. Her heart beat with expectant passion--she longed for the moment when she could rest upon his breast and confess her love. Why did he not speak? He turned to her at last, and spoke. "Lenore," he said, and his voice was deep and earnest, almost solemn, "I want to ask you a question. Will you answer me?" "Ask it," she said, and she raised her eyes to his with a sudden flash. "When you saw me to-night, when I came in unexpectedly, you were--moved. Was it because you were glad to see me?" She was silent a moment. "Is that a fair question?" she murmured. "Yes," he said. "Yes, Lenore; we will not trifle with each other, you and I. If you were glad to see me, do not hesitate to say so; it is not idle vanity that prompts the question." She faltered and turned her head away. "Why will you press me?" she murmured in a low, tremulous voice. "Do you wish to see me ashamed?" Then she turned to him suddenly, and the violet eyes met his with a light of passionate love in their depths. "But I will answer it," she said. "Yes, I was glad."