More than once she had pictured the meeting with the old peer; but, as is invariably the case, the reality was much more vivid than the imagination had been. Deerehurst came forward with the stiff, courtly manner that brought back with almost painful clearness the balcony of the Venetian palace--the Venetian salon with its polished floor and glittering chandeliers--the Venetian night-music borne across the waters. It all surged back in a wave of memory--first a pang of pain, then a pang of reckless self-contempt. After all, who cared? What did her action--her manner of living--even her existence--matter to any living soul? She held out her hand and allowed him to bow over it. He bowed over it for a long time; then he raised his head and looked at her. His pale, inscrutable face was as waxlike as ever; his eyes were as cold, as penetrating, as old in their look of supreme wisdom. "So we meet again," he said. "My hope has been fulfilled!" For a moment Clodagh stood, permitting him to clasp her fingers and look into her face, while she herself made no effort to speak; then, as if suddenly conscious of something strange in the position, she freed her hand with a little, nervous laugh, and turned to where Serracauld was waiting to greet her. With a smile and a gesture of easy familiarity the younger man came forward. "Welcome to England!" he said. "Only yesterday a man at my club was telling me of the prettiest woman on the Riviera this year. I won't be personal, but the lady was at Monte Carlo only a week ago--turning other people's heads and emptying her own pockets with the most delightful impartiality." Clodagh laughed, but this time without embarrassment. "Be as personal as you like!" she said carelessly. "It wasn't my fault if luck was dead against me." Deerehurst came forward slowly. "But the turned heads?" he asked. She smiled. "Was it my business to put them straight again? I'm not a surgeon." They all laughed; and at that moment dinner was announced. Lady Frances Hope touched Clodagh's arm. "Lord Deerehurst will play host, Clodagh! Val, I consign myself to you!" Serracauld moved to her side with his usual indolent ease; and Deerehurst offered Clodagh his arm. They had to traverse the length of a large double drawing-room before the dining-room was reached. And during that passage he found opportunity for a whispered word or two. As they moved forward he avoided looking at Clodagh; but his arm slightly and unmistakably pressed hers. "Am I not forgiving--to be so glad to see you?" he murmured in his thin, cold voice. "I waited on the terrace until twelve o'clock, that night in Venice." Involuntarily her face flushed. His voice was as potent as ever to express infinitely more than the words it uttered. "I--I wish to forget Venice," she said. He stole a swift glance at her. "Then shall we make a compact? Shall we forget it jointly?" She said nothing. Again, almost imperceptibly, his arm pressed hers.