It is simply out of idle curiosity that Carlisle has accompanied Vane and Trentermain. He expects to be terribly bored; but when they alight at the famous house in Kensington, and everywhere he sees the delicate subdued hues, the softly-shaded lights, the gracefully-arranged ferns and shrubs and hot-house blossoms, the artistic yet suitable dresses of the attendants, who move about so unobtrusively (there is not a man-servant anywhere), the strange hush and quietude, broken by no loud voices or discordant laughter, he begins to think the new school is not so bad after all. "And now for the priestess," he says in a whisper to Trent, as they follow their friend from the tea-room, which is simply a gem. His tall figure passes through the curtained doorway. A light like moonlight fills all the room into which he enters. His head towers above Vane's, and straight before him he sees a woman with a halo of golden hair loose about her brow, with a soft, languid, serious smile, with---- Their eyes meet. After thirteen long years of absence and separation, Cyril Carlisle finds himself once again in the presence of the only woman he has ever really loved. "Colonel Carlisle, Lady Etwynde Fitz-Herbert." He bends over her hand as she gives it. In that moment she is calmer, more self-possessed than himself. "I--I hope--I beg," he stammers confusedly. "I mean, I had no idea when Vane asked me to come here that I should find myself in _your_ house." "You are very welcome," she says, and the low, tender music of her voice thrills him with an exquisite pain. "I--I saw your regiment had returned. You have been away a great many years." "A great many," he answers, his eyes sweeping over the lovely face and figure of the queenly woman, who is so like and yet so different to the radiant, happy girl he had left. "You--you are very little altered," she says presently, and the great fan of peacock's feathers in her hand trembles as she meets his glance. "Am I?" he says bitterly. "I should have thought the reverse; I feel changed enough, Heaven knows." She is silent. Her heart is beating fast, the colour comes and goes in her face. She is thinking how glad she is she did not put on that terra-cotta gown with its huge puffs and frills, but discarded it at the last moment for this soft creamy robe of Indian silk, that seems to float about her like a mist, and show all the lovely curves of her perfect figure as she moves or stands. Cyril Carlisle thinks her more lovely than ever. The old pain so long buried and fought against comes back all too vividly. He knows he has never forgotten, never ceased to love this woman; but she--how calm, how changed she is! Again, as in the past, comes back the thought of all his love for her had meant, of all they might have been but for his own folly, his own sin.