Lois had just seated herself as he took up this station. The mellow, amber rays of the wax lights fell on her graceful figure and on her stately head. From the spot where he stood, Paul Desfrayne could watch her every movement. Unconsciously to himself, he drank in the sweet poison of love at every glance as he observed the pure, statuesque lines and curves of that queenly form, the rich, silken shimmer of the lovely hair, the harmonious, suave grace of each motion. “I will summon up courage to-night, if I can possibly find an opportunity,” he thought, “and tell her the truth. I may have a chance of speaking to her. After to-night, it will probably be months before we meet again, if we ever do meet. She seems sweet and amiable; she is undoubtedly as beautiful as a dream. Probably she will pity my unhappy position, and sympathize with my misfortunes, even if they arise from my own folly. What a madman I have been! Truly they say: ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure.’ What would I not give or do to be free once more!” Lois began to sing. She had thought for a minute or two, and then struck the chords of a graceful symphony to a pathetic Irish air. Her voice was clear and deliciously sweet--pure as that of an angel. Thanks to Lady Quaintree, it had been most carefully trained, and the young girl had a sensitive feeling for the words as well as the music of what she sang. Paul Desfrayne’s relentless memory went back to those feverish days when he had listened, spellbound in that heated theater at Florence, to the siren notes of the woman who had destroyed his happiness. The contrast between Lucia Guiscardini and Lois Turquand was as great as between darkness and light. In every respect they totally differed. The one was a magnificent tigress, regal in beauty, haughty and unbending in temper; the other a gentle white doe, lovely and soft. Presently the song ceased. Blanche’s laced handkerchief stole to her eyes for a moment, then she kissed her friend by way of thanks. There was a little buzz of well-bred, musical voices for a minute or two, and then the girls emerged on the upper terrace as if coming out to breathe the fresh air. Paul Desfrayne drew back still farther within the sheltering gloom, rendered all the more secure by the increasing splendor of the moonlight, which caused strange, sudden contrasts of light and shade in the gardens. The faint scent of his cigar might have warned the girls of his proximity, but they did not notice it. He was, however, out of ear-shot. For a moment he thought of ascending the short flight of steps leading from the lower to the upper terrace, but feeling that in his present depressed state he would be poor company, he elected to stay where he was. Within half an hour he resolved to take leave of his entertainers, and ride home.