That same evening Miss Kate Burgoyne invited Lionel to come to her room for a cup of tea when he had dressed for the last act; and accordingly, when he was ready, he strolled along the corridor, rapped with his knuckles, and entered. It turned out that the prima-donna had other visitors: a young lady whom he had never seen before and Mr. Percival Miles. The young gentleman, in faultless evening dress, seemed a little surprised at the easy manner in which Lionel had lounged into the place; and perhaps Lionel was also a little surprised--for this was Mr. Miles's first appearance in the room; but each man merely nodded to the other, in a formal-acquaintance style, as they were in the habit of doing at the Garden Club. At the same moment Miss Burgoyne opened a portion of the curtain, so that she could address her guests. "Mr. Moore, let me introduce you to my friend, Miss Ingram. Mr. Miles I think you know." And Lionel was glad enough to turn to the young lady and enter into conversation with her, for the pale young man with the slight yellow moustache was defiantly silent, and had even something fierce about his demeanor. It was no business of Lionel's to provoke a quarrel with this truculent fire-eater, especially in Miss Burgoyne's room. To quarrel about Kate Burgoyne?--the irony of events could go no further than that. And of course, as the most immediate topic, they spoke of the gale that had been blowing across London all the afternoon and evening; for the southerly winds that had prevailed in the morning had freshened up and increased in violence until a veritable hurricane was now raging, threatening roofs, chimneys, and lamp-posts, to say nothing of the whirled and driven and bewildered foot-passengers. "I hear there has been a bad accident in Oxford Street," Lionel said to the young lady. "Some scaffolding has fallen--a lot of people hurt. I'm afraid there will be a sad tale to tell from the sea; even now, while we are secure in this big building, thinking only of amusement, I suppose there is many a ship laboring in the gale, or going headlong on to the rocks. Have you far to get home?" he asked. "Oh, I am going home with Miss Burgoyne," the young lady answered. But here Miss Burgoyne herself appeared, coming forth in the full splendor of Grace Mainwaring's bridal attire and with all her radiant witcheries of make-up, and the poor lad sitting there, who had never before been so near this vision of delight, seemed quite entranced by its (strictly speaking) superhuman loveliness. He could not take his eyes away from her. He did not think of joining in the conversation. He watched her at the mirror; he watched her making tea; he watched her munching a tiny piece of bread and butter (which was imprudent on her part, after the care she had bestowed on her lips); and always he was silent and spellbound. Miss Burgoyne, on the other hand, was talkative enough.