Her cheeks turned hot; in
a mirror she could see them burning, her lips scornfully curved, her eyes
strange. Standing there, she looked long at herself, till, little by
little, her face lost every vestige of that disturbance, became solid and
resolute again. She ceased to have the galloping wild feeling in her
heart, and instead felt cold. Detached from herself she watched, with
contentment, her own calm and radiant beauty resume the armour it had for
that moment put off.

After dinner that night, when the men left the dining-hall, Miltoun
slipped away to his den. Of all those present in the little church he
had seemed most unemotional, and had been most moved. Though it had been
so quiet and private a wedding, he had resented all cheap festivity
accompanying the passing of his young sister. He would have had that
ceremony in the little dark disused chapel at the Court; those two, and
the priest alone. Here, in this half-pagan little country church
smothered hastily in flowers, with the raw singing of the half-pagan
choir, and all the village curiosity and homage-everything had jarred,
and the stale aftermath sickened him. Changing his swallow-tail to an old
smoking jacket, he went out on to the lawn. In the wide darkness he
could rid himself of his exasperation.

Since the day of his election he had not once been at Monkland; since
Mrs. Noel's flight he had never left London. In London and work he had
buried himself; by London and work he had saved himself! He had gone
down into the battle.

Dew had not yet fallen, and he took the path across the fields. There was
no moon, no stars, no wind; the cattle were noiseless under the trees;
there were no owls calling, no night-jars churring, the fly-by-night
chafers were not abroad. The stream alone was alive in the quiet
darkness. And as Miltoun followed the wispy line of grey path cleaving
the dim glamour of daisies and buttercups, there came to him the feeling
that he was in the presence, not of sleep, but of eternal waiting. The
sound of his footfalls seemed desecration. So devotional was that hush,
burning the spicy incense of millions of leaves and blades of grass.

Crossing the last stile he came out, close to her deserted cottage, under
her lime-tree, which on the night of Courtier's adventure had hung
blue-black round the moon. On that side, only a rail, and a few shrubs
confined her garden.

The house was all dark, but the many tall white flower