She had believed that he positively disliked her, and had secretly reproached herself for letting her thoughts dwell so persistently upon a man who scorned her. Only during the past ten minutes had she learned the truth, that against his will he loved her as passionately as she loved him. That one glorious fact outweighed all other considerations in her mind. As to Lord Carthew, he was as completely forgotten as though he had never existed. His intelligence, his kindly sympathy, his interesting talk, were of no more account in her eyes than his wealth and title. The strain of wild gypsy blood in her veins was showing itself fully now. She loved as gypsy natures can, with a passionate self-abandonment, counting the world and all that it contains of no value when compared with the love of the one person existing who could make life worth living. Yet she was a Cranstoun, too--trained in habits of strict self-control from her infancy; and when the second summons to luncheon came, she sprang up instinctively, smoothed her hair, looked at herself fixedly in the glass, and hoped that others would not notice the strange glow in her cheeks and light in her eyes, and went down to lunch in her plain serge gown, her eyes like two dancing stars, and her mouth all tremulous with smiles. It was almost with a start that she came face to face with Lord Carthew, and realized that he was staying in the house. Lady Cranstoun glanced at her nervously. She was a few minutes late, and Sir Philip never overlooked the least unpunctuality. To-day, however, to her great astonishment, he made no comment upon it. He and Lord Carthew seemed to get on unusually well together; both had travelled a good deal in Europe, the former unaccompanied by his wife and daughter, and they naturally fell to discussing the various hotels at which they had stayed. Stella was heartily glad that no part of the conversation devolved upon her. She sat in her usual place at the head of the table, Lady Cranstoun not being equal to any of the duties of hostess, mechanically doing all that was required of her, and all the time wondering whether Hilary had left the house yet, how he would stand the journey in his weak condition, whether by any chance she should see him again before his departure, and if not, how soon he would write to her. Lord Carthew noticed the brightness of her eyes and her absent-minded expression, and with a thrill of joy hoped it might arise from her half-given promise to himself. His interview with her father had been short, but characteristic of both men. He had followed the dreaded gray wolf into his vast library, surrounded by well-filled oaken bookcases, and had watched him take his accustomed place with his back to the fire, sarcastic, and critical.