"No such obstinacy can be tolerated," they reply. "Lord Gordon and Captain Lockhart leave us to-morrow and everyone must contribute to their entertainment to-night. Only one song, Lady Vera, then we will excuse you." She hesitates for a moment. Then a thought flashes over her mind. "He sang to me," she thinks. "Why cannot I sing to him? Surely he must understand me then." She suffers them to persuade her, and Lord Gordon comes forward to turn the leaves of the music. She shakes her head. "I will sing some simple thing from memory," she says, and then he takes her fan and retains his place near her on that small pretext. His eyes linger on her beauty, the proud throat and fair face rising lily-like from the somber black dress. She touches the white keys softly with her slim, white fingers. A plaintive melody rises, a mournful, minor chord; she sings with sudden, passionate fervor, some simple, pathetic words: "I strove to tear thee from my heart, The effort was in vain, The spell was ever on my life, And I am here again. "Oh, I have ranged in countries strange, And vowed no more to meet, But power was in thy parting glance To bring me to thy feet. "We cannot go against love's will When he has bound us fast; Forgive the thought that did thee wrong And be my own at last!" She glances up. If she can point the words by even one deep glance into her lover's eyes, all may yet be well. But Miss Montgomery, as if in malice prepense, has suddenly risen and leaned against the piano just before the singer's eyes. Captain Lockhart, standing with folded arms across the room, is out of the range of her vision. Lady Vera rises in despair. Her innocent little plan has failed. All hope dies in her breast. She sits down in a quiet corner, and Lord Gordon insists on fanning her, and showing her a new portfolio of engravings. This is his last evening with her, and like the reckless moth that he is, he singes his wings in the flame of her beauty. Someone calls him away at last, and the girl's heart gives a great, muffled throb of relief. She is alone for the moment, in the quiet alcove, half hidden by the white lace curtain. Will Captain Lockhart come to her now? she asks herself, with a wildly-beating heart. He sees her sitting there in her black dress and lily-white beauty, the light shining down on her golden head and star-like face. Some impulse stronger than his pride moves him to cross the room to her side. She glances up with a smile so dazzling in its joy, that Tennyson's lines rush into his mind: "What if with her sunny hair, And smile as sunny as cold, She meant to weave me a snare Of some coquettish deceit, Cleopatra-like, as of old, To entangle me when we met, To have her lion roll in a silken net, And fawn at a victor's feet?"