“In my human weakness I wish that--just for once--I had seen her! But in the strong spirit of the wine of life--whereof I have been and am an inveterate and most incurable bibber--I rejoice in that wonderful moment of mine to-morrow--when the door of the shrine opens, and I see the goddess before whom my offering must be laid. Be she giant or dwarf, be she black or white, have she hair or none--by the powers, if she wears a sack only, and is well advised to stick close to that, lest casting it should be a change for the worse--in any event the offering must be made. Even so the Prince in the tales, making his vows to the Beast and not yet knowing if his spell shall transform it to the Beauty! In my stronger moments, so would I have it. Years of life shall I live in that moment to-morrow! If it end ill, no human being but myself shall know. If it end well, the world is not great enough to hold, nor the music of its spheres melodious enough to sound, my triumph!” It will be observed that Lord Lynborough, though indeed no novice in the cruel and tender passion, was appreciably excited on the Eve of the Feast of St John Baptist. In view of so handsome a response, the Marchesa’s kiss of the hand and her murmured “To-morrow” may pass excused of forwardness. It was, nevertheless, a gentleman to all seeming most cool and calm who presented himself at the doors of Nab Grange at eleven fifty-five the next morning. His Ambassadors had come in magnificence; humbly he walked--and not by Beach Path, since his homage was not yet paid--but round by the far-stretching road and up the main avenue most decorously. Stabb and Roger had cut across by the path--holding the Marchesa’s leave and licence so to do--and had joined an excited group which sat on chairs under sheltering trees. “I wish she hadn’t made the audience private!” said Norah Mountliffey. “If ever a keyhole were justifiable----” sighed Violet Dufaure. “My dear, I’d box your ears myself,” Miss Gilletson brusquely interrupted. The Marchesa sat in a high arm-chair, upholstered in tarnished fading gold. The sun from the window shone on her hair; her face was half in shadow. She rested her head on her left hand; the right lay on her knee. It was stripped of any ring--unadorned white. Her cheeks were pale--the olive reigned unchallenged; her lips were set tight, her eyes downcast. She made no movement when Lord Lynborough entered. He bowed low, but said nothing. He stood opposite to her some two yards away. The clock ticked. It wanted still a minute before noon struck. That was the minute of which Lynborough had raved and dreamed the night before. He had the fruit of it in full measure.