Mrs. Delarayne surveyed him a moment. She hadn't the faintest idea what he was driving at, but such was her confidence in the soundness of his judgment that she started on her way to fulfil his instructions. There was but one circumstance that made her feel that Lord Henry was a trifle unfamiliar to her on this visit, and that was his unusually well-groomed appearance. In his present outfit he seemed just a little terrifying. It was as if she divined that his more normal, his more fashionable exterior on this occasion, made him accessible to other women besides herself. She smiled a little nervously and left the room, leaving the door ajar. He rose as soon as she had gone, heard her say a few words to her daughter and Agatha, and a second or two later, was given the signal which announced that the ground was clear. He entered the room as if by accident, glanced casually round, and in doing so got a fleeting glimpse of Cleopatra. She was lying back in a deep armchair, her chin resting in her hand. He noticed that she raised her head, regarded him with an expression of mingled interest, fear, and surprise, then slightly stirring in her chair, looked about her for some means of escape. Her back was turned to the light so that her face was in shadow, and with the object of leaving her under the protection of the discreet lighting she had chosen, he sat down facing her, with the whole glare of the sunlit garden upon him. "Miss Delarayne," he began, "please don't move on my account. I don't think I shall disturb you. I heard you would not see me. Quite right too, perhaps. But surely there can be no harm in our talking, if it does not annoy you." The woman in Cleopatra now urged her to show more animation, beneath this young man's gaze, than was compatible with her avowed condition of extreme lassitude and feebleness. "I only said I did not wish to see you," she declared, "because I felt better alone." He was a little staggered by the extraordinary beauty of this girl who so far had not taken her eyes off him. He had expected that Mrs. Delarayne's daughters would be beautiful,--and in Leonetta he had had his expectations confirmed. In Cleopatra, however, as he surveyed her then, he discerned a degree of nobility and pride, which were apparent neither in her mother nor her sister, and which lent a singular queenliness to her impelling charms. "There, of course, you were wrong," he said with gentle persuasiveness, blinking rapidly. "We are no longer wild beasts of prey who can creep into caves to recover or die alone. We are human beings, social animals. Two heads are better than one, even in the matter of getting well."