She felt the thing to have been rather ridiculous, and yet she was pleased. She was gently elated, and had a kindly eye for herself as she dressed before her glass. Power lay with her; she could choose and weigh, accept or refuse. She was loveworthy yet. In spite of her disaster, a man had sought her. Others would do that same, moved by what had moved him. Shining eyes, body's form, softness, roundness--she had hardly thought of these things before, nor looked at them with an eye to their value. Mr. Worthington's ardent glances had illuminated her own, and by-and-by she found, oddly enough, that they threw a backward beam, and illuminated others. She found herself smiling tenderly as she thought of Jack Senhouse, and repeating some of that poetry which he had literally poured into her lap. It was so long ago! But when she remembered how much it had puzzled her, she now found that she was not puzzled by it at all. Your eyes are twin mountain lakes, and the lashes of them Like the swishing sedge That hideth the water's edge.... Were her eyes, then, so fair! Mr. Worthington had found them so. Others would--others had. “Thy face drinketh the light,”--he had written that of her--and now she knew that he had believed it. Had Nevile felt these things? Could Nevile--as she knew him? Her lip curved back. If she could not think of herself without thinking of Nevile--who wanted to mangle her--better take the veil. But she felt the strange reality behind that wild and adoring passion of Jack Senhouse's, which had made him so incalculable a mixture. He advised her, and adored, he received her confidences, and emptied verses out of his heart into her lap. And she had had nothing to give him, who had given her all! All indeed; for now she saw that he had loved her beyond measure, reason, or stint. There had been that last of his letters--a despairing cry from Chanctonbury, written when she was Nevile's shadow, and he hers. She felt stabbed to the heart to remember how perfunctorily she had read that. How did it go? What had he said? She could not recall the words, but their sense beat upon her. Oh, he had set her too high! He had called her Artemis--the chaste, the bright. Artemis the Bright had been one of his names for her--and Queen Mab another. He had set her too high! And how far had she fallen? She bowed her burning head, and even as she did so, remembered another phrase of his, sent with flowers--a line from the Anthology, begging her to grant his rose “the grace of a fair breast.” No longer fair, no longer fair--except to Nevile, who craved it--and to a Mr. Worthington.