Flushed and bright-eyed, she stood beside Lord Wyvelstoke to receive the many guests. And viewing her as I stood thus, myself unseen amid the crowd, beholding her serene and noble carriage, her vivid colouring, the classic mould of form and features, the grace and ease of her every movement, I saw she was indeed more beautiful than I dreamed and caught my breath in a very ecstasy. Here was Diana herself, yet a Diana glorified even as Lord Wyvelstoke had said, and with a thousand elusive graces beyond my poor description. And now I was bowing before her, heard her tremulous murmur of "Peregrine!" and answered back as tremulously, "Diana!" and so, yielding place to others, I passed on, to bow and smile and chatter inanities with such of the guests as were of my acquaintance, but yearning for chance of speech with her alone. Then, somehow, she was beside me, her hand upon my arm, and we were walking, though whither I cared not, my every sense thrilled by her gracious ease, her stately beauty and all the wonder of her. I remember we sat and talked of the past two years, of much that she had seen and done; and she questioned me a little breathlessly and always of myself, and I, conscious of the many bewildering changes in her and of those deep, grey eyes looking at me beneath their level brows, or hidden by their down-sweeping black lashes, answered briefly or very much at random, so that she questioned me at last: "Peregrine, are you listening?" "Yes--no!" I answered. "How can I? You are so--wonderful!" At this the rich colour deepened in her cheek and her eyes grew ineffably tender. "And you," she murmured, "you are still my Peregrine of the Silent Places, the gentleman who stooped to teach me that love could be--a holy thing--" From the distance stole the sound of music and suddenly, as if conjured up of these sweet strains, were eager gentlemen all about us, vying with each other for the honour of escorting her down to the ballroom. "Miss Lovel," simpered a gallant young exquisite, his fashionably pallid features peeping out between the silkiest of glossy whiskers, "we are to be favahed, I think, to be charmed and delighted by your incomparable singing--aw, how do, Vereker! Miss Lovel, you behold me a humble ambassador, to beg, to entreat you to keep us waiting no longer--" "The evening is young, my lord," she answered lightly, "though your impatience is flattering, I vow--" "Impatience, Miss Lovel?" sighed a gorgeous being in scarlet and epaulettes. "Impatience--haw--is quite inadequate to express our--hum--I should say, my own sentiments; 'impatience' is a word too--ha--altogether too feeble! For my own part I should--haw--I should rather say we--" "Passion, ma'm, passion!" exclaimed a square-faced gentleman in naval blue. "Speaking as a blunt sailor, passion's the word, Miss Lovel--passion. Passion's the only word, I think, gentlemen?" "Indubitably!" "Positively!" "Per-fectly!"