So it happened that he was left much to himself, for Charlie, thinking himself rather _de trop_ and in the way, had taken himself off to join his shooting party, and Leycester spent most of his time wandering about the coast or riding over the hills, generally returning at dinner-time tired and thoughtful, and very often expecting some word or look of complaint from his beautiful betrothed. But they never came. Exquisitely dressed, she always met him with the same serene smile, in which there was just a suggestion of tenderness she could not express, and never a question as to where he had been. After dinner he would come and sit beside her, leaning back and watching her, too often absently, and listening to her as she talked to the others. To him she very seldom said much, but if he chanced to ask her for anything--to play or to sing--she obeyed instantly, as if he were already her lord and master. It touched him, her simple-minded devotion and thorough comprehension of him--touched him as no display of affection on her part would have done. "Heaven help her, she loves me!" he thought, often and often. "And I!" One evening they chanced to be alone together--he had come in after dinner, having eaten some sort of meal at a shooting lodge on the adjoining estate--and found her seated by the window, her white hands in her lap, a rapt look on her face. She looked so supremely lovely, so rapt and solitary that his heart smote him, and he went up to her, his step making no sound on the thick carpet, and kissed her. She started and looked up with a burning blush which transfigured her for a moment, then she said, quietly: "Is that you, Leycester? Have you dined?" "Yes," he said, with a pang of self-reproach. "Why should you think of that? I do not deserve that you should care whether I dine or not." She smiled up at him; her eyebrows arched themselves. "Should it not? But I do care, very much. Have you?" He nodded impatiently. "Yes. You do not even ask me where I have been?" "No," she murmured, softly. "I can wait until you tell me; it is for you to tell me, and for me to wait." Such submission, such meekness from her who was pride and hauteur personified to others, amazed him. "By Heaven, Lenore!" he exclaimed, in a low voice, "there never was a woman like you." "No?" she said. "I am glad you will have something that is unique then." "Yes," he said, "I shall." Then he said, suddenly, "When am I to possess my gem, Lenore?" She started, and turned her face from him. He looked down at her, and put his hand on her shoulder, white and warm and responsive to his touch. "Lenore, let it be soon. We will not wait. Why should we? Let us make ourselves and all the rest of them happy." "Will it make you happy?" she asked. It was a dangerous question, but the impulse was too strong. "Yes," he said, and indeed he thought so. "Can you say the same, Lenore?"