"That duet we used to sing, you know," she said; and her familiar tone and coquettish smile half maddened Una with pain. She drew back without a word, and let Eliot pass her, and between Sylvie and her sister he had no more chance to speak to her in the drawing-room that evening. When the music was done he was drawn into a game of chess, and as Una was ignorant of the game she was perforce left out. She sat apart and talked to some callers who had dropped in, and when they left she was only too glad to find that the evening was over and the family were separated for the night. She went upstairs very slowly, and along the carpeted hall to her room, with a bitter sense of loneliness and disappointment, vaguely comprehending the malice of the two women who had so cleverly kept Eliot from her side all the evening. "They hate me for my unconscious fault," she thought, miserably. "Good-night, Una," a voice said, suddenly, almost at her side. It was Eliot who had followed her upstairs. As she turned round her white, startled face, he drew her hand in his arm and walked with her toward her door. "You forgot to tell me good-night," he said, smiling. "Or--did you deliberately snub me again because of--a fit of ill-temper?" Too truthful to deny the imputation, she said, bashfully: "I'm afraid so. I thought Miss Hayes wasn't going to let you off long enough to say good-night, so I came away." Pressing her little hand very close against his side, he replied, ardently: "I should like to see the Miss Hayes that could keep me from saying good-night to my darling little wife." They had reached her door. She paused, trembling with delight, but in the dim light he could not see the gladness in the beautiful dark eyes. He only felt the trembling of the form beside him, and thought that she was nervous and frightened. "Do not be afraid of me, Una," he said, hurriedly, and with sharp disappointment. Then he drew the little figure close to his heart, and held her there a moment, while he pressed on her warm lips the ardent kiss of a lover. A moment more he turned away and left her to enter her room alone, with some sweet, passionate words ringing in her ears: "Good-night, my darling, my little wife! Sleep well, and dream of your own Eliot." "Did he mean it? Is he learning to love me at last?" she whispered to herself, sobbing wildly with hysterical delight, and trembling with bashful pleasure. She unrobed and lay down on her dainty white bed, not to sleep, but to live over and over again, in fancy, his tender looks and words and his warm caress. But Eliot, in whom a passionate hope and longing had been stirring all day, went to his solitary room vaguely disappointed.