For a moment she was conscious of a feeling of surprise. She thought she knew him well, but in that instant he looked so different that he seemed almost a stranger. She had not seen him before in evening dress, and the change from the velvet coat and knickerbockers to the severe, but aristocratic, black suit struck her. Like all well-made, high-bred men he looked at his best in the dress which fashion has decreed shall be the evening costume of gentlemen. She had thought him handsome, noble, in the easy, careless suit of velvet, she knew that he was distinguished looking in his suit of evening sables. With his hand upon the curtain he stood, his head erect, his eyes not eagerly, but commandingly, scanning the room. She could not tell why or how she knew, but she knew that he was looking for her. Presently he sees her, and a subtle change came over his face, it was not a smile so much as a look of satisfaction, and she knew again that a frown would have settled on his white brow if she whom he sought had not been there. With a high but firm step he came across the room and stood before her, holding out his hand. "You have come," he said; "I thought you would not come. It is very kind of Mr. Etheridge." She gave him her hand without a word. She knew that the keen gray eyes of the old lady beside her were fixed on her face. He seemed to remember too, for in a quieter, more commonplace, tone, he added: "I am late; it is an habitual fault of mine." "It is," said the old countess. He turned his smile upon her. "Are you going to scold me?" "I am not fond of wasting my time," she said. "Come and sit down for a minute if you can." He glanced at the clock. "Am I not keeping you all waiting?" he said. Lady Longford shook her head. "No; we are waiting for Lenore." "Then she is not here!" thought Stella. "Oh, Lenore!" he said, with a smile. "Well, no one will dare to scold her." As he spoke the curtain parted, and someone entered. Framed by the curtain that fell behind her in crimson folds stood a girl--not yet a woman, for all her twenty-three years--of wonderful beauty, with deep golden hair and violet eyes. Stella knew her at once from her uncle's description, but it was not the beauty that surprised her and made her start; it was something more than that. It was the nameless, indescribable charm which surrounded her; it was the grace which distinguished her figure, her very attitude. She stood a moment, with a faint half-smile upon her lips, looking round; then she glided with a peculiar movement, that struck Stella as grace itself, to Lady Wyndward, and bent her head down to the countess. Stella could not hear what she said, but she knew that she was apologizing for her tardiness by the way the earl, who was standing by, smiled at her. Yes, evidently Lady Lenore would not be scolded for keeping dinner waiting.