And Vincent was about to do that when the door behind him opened. Instinctively he rose and turned. The next instant Maisrie Bethune was before him—looking taller, he thought, than he had, in Hyde Park, imagined her to be. She saluted him gravely and without embarrassment; perhaps she had been told of his arrival; it was he who was, for the moment, somewhat confused, and anxious to apologise and explain. But, curiously enough, that was only a passing phase. When once he had realised that she also was in the room—not paying much attention, perhaps, but listening when she chose, as she attended to some flowers she had brought for the central table—all his embarrassment fled, and his natural buoyancy and confidence came to his aid. She, on her side, seemed to consider that she was of no account; that she was not called upon to interfere in this conversation between her grandfather and his guest. When she had finished with the flowers, she went to the open window, and took her seat, opening out some needlework she had carried thither. The young man could see she had beautiful hands—rather long, perhaps, but exquisitely formed: another wonder! But the truly extraordinary thing—the enchantment—was that here he was in the same room with her, likely to become her friend, and already privileged to speak so that she could hear! For of course he was aware that he had an audience of two; and very well he talked, in his half-excited mood. There was no more timidity; there was a gay self-assertion—a desire to excel and shine; sometimes he laughed, and his laugh was musical. He had skillfully drawn from the old man a confession of political faith (of course he was a Conservative, as became one of the Bethunes of Balloray), so all chance of collision was avoided on that point; and indeed Vin Harris was ready to have sworn that black was white, so eager was he to make an impression, on this his first, and wondrous visit. The time went by all too quickly; but the young man had become intoxicated by this unexpected joy; instead of getting up and apologising, and taking his hat, and going away, he boldly threw out the suggestion that these three—these solitary units in the great sea of London life, as George Bethune had called them—should determine to spend the evening together. He did not seem to be aware of the audacity of his proposal; he was carrying everything before him in a high-handed fashion; the touch of colour that rose to Maisrie Bethune’s cheek—what of that? Oh, yes, maiden shyness, no doubt; but of little consequence; here were the golden moments—here the golden opportunity: why should they separate?