"Yes, Pierce is charming," she said eagerly. "And so are his mother and sister. I told you, didn't I?" "Yes." "We dined with them at the Carlton last night. And they're coming here to tea this afternoon. I know you'll love them. Mrs. Estcoit has the most fascinating----" But Gore made a rueful face. "To-day!" he said. "Oh, you might have given me the first day!" Clodagh laughed happily. "How greedy of you! This is to be a family party." Gore smiled. "And Nance was decorating the room for the sacrifice?" He idly gathered the stalks and leaves of the heliotrope into a little heap. The action was purely mechanical, purely inadvertent. But as he drew the broken stems together, a small object, hitherto hidden under the scattered leaves, was suddenly brought to light. It was very trivial, very uninteresting--merely a man's visiting-card. Without consideration he picked it up and looked at it. Then, with an extremely quiet gesture, he laid it down again. It bore the name of the Earl of Deerehurst; and across it Clodagh's name and address had been scribbled in pencil. "So you owe the decorations to Deerehurst?" he said in a low voice. There was a short silence. Then suddenly he rose and stepped to Clodagh's side. "Dear, forgive me!" he said. At the unexpected words, Clodagh's heart swelled. With a sudden impulse she caught the hand he had laid upon her shoulder and pressed it against her face. "No, Walter!" she said. "Say all that was in your mind! Be angry, if you like!" For answer, Gore seated himself beside her on the window-sill. "I don't think I should ever be angry with you," he said gently. "Anger seems to belong to lesser things than--love. I should either believe in you or disbelieve in you." He said the somewhat curious words gravely. Clodagh turned to him swiftly. "Walter, there was no doubt of me in your mind then?" He met her searching eyes quietly. "Not one doubt. Do you think I have forgotten that night at Tuffnell?" He spoke almost gently; but at his words, the remembrance of the night at Tuffnell rushed back upon Clodagh with an almost exaggerated vividness. On that night love had shone upon her--love, with its coveted accompaniments of trust and protection. She remembered the dimly-lit music-room, the dark garden with its old-fashioned scents; she remembered Gore's quiet, distinct question. "Not one of these people is anything to you--in any way?" She remembered this; and she remembered also the infinitesimal pause that had divided his question from her answer, when the images of Lady Frances Hope, of Serracauld, of Deerehurst, had flitted across her imagination. Then, last of all, she recalled her own answer-- "Not one of them is anything to me--in any way." The moment that had brought forth that answer had been crucial--had been, psychologically, intensely interesting. It had been the triumph of love--the triumph of the egotism that is, and ever must be, a component part of love.