“Party,” he cried; “what party? It is you and I, that is all.” This was all unknown to her. She had loved him, the boy with the extraordinary eyes, the boy who played so magnificently, who laughed so much. But now there was roused something more than these. The piano-player was gone, he did not laugh, his eyes had never quite glowed like that, and there was in his face something she had never seen yet. The woman had awakened the man; this was his first full moment of consciousness. And, like all women for the first time face to face with the lover and the beloved, she was afraid. She had not till now seen his full fire. “I am frightened,” she cried. “What have we done?” But his answer came back like an echo to what she had not said, but what was behind her words. “Frightened?” he said. “Oh, Stella, not of me, not of the real me?” She gave a little laugh, still mysteriously nervous. “You were a stranger,” she said. “I never saw you before.” Martin gave a great, happy sigh. “You are quite right,” he said, and the authentic fire leaped to and fro between their eyes. “I was never _this_ before. But you are not frightened now?” This time her eyes did not waver from his. “No, Martin,” she said. * * * * * But there was no more privacy possible here. Stella had been quite right; there was a party going on, and at the moment a great burst of applause signified the end of Karl Rusoff’s performance. Stella started. “There. I told you so,” she said. “Now take me to my mother; she will be waiting for me.” Martin frowned. “Cannot she wait?” he asked. “I too have never seen the real you before.” “No, dear, we must go. There is to-morrow, all the to-morrows.” “And to think that it has only been yesterday until this evening,” he said. “There is Lady Monica, looking for you.” Lady Monica had a practised eye. She kept everything she had in excellent practise; there was nothing rusty about her. “Stella dear, I’ve been looking for you,” she said. “Are you better? Has Mr. Challoner been taking care of you?” That was sufficient. “Stella says I may,” said he. Lady Monica checked her exclamation of “Thank God!” as being a shade too business-like. “Ah, dear Mr. Martin,” she said. “How nice, how very, very nice! Stella, my dearest. How secret you have been. Come, darling, we must go. I can’t talk to either of you in this crowd. But how nice! We shall see you to-morrow? Come to lunch, quite, quite quietly.” Stella looked at him. “Yes, do, Martin,” she said. “I will take you back after our skate.” “Ah, I had forgotten,” he said. She laughed divinely. “But I had not. And you will be kind to me, as I asked you?” she added. He dwelt on his answer. “I kind--to you?” he said. CHAPTER XII