men, professors,
politicians, travelers, philanthropists, faddists--these were the folk
that mostly frequented Caspar Brooke's parties. Neither artists nor
musicians were largely represented: the flow of talk was rather
political and literary than artistic; and on the whole there were more
elderly people than young ones. As a rule, Oliver Trent was not disposed
to frequent these assemblies: he shrugged his shoulders at them and
called them "slow," but on this occasion he was only too glad to find
admittance. It was at least a good opportunity for watching Lesley, as
she passed from one group to another, doing the duties of
assistant-hostess with grace and tact, giving a smile to one, a word to
another, entering into low-toned conversation, which brightened her eyes
and flushed her fair cheek, with another. Oliver thought her perfection.
Beside her stately proportions, Ethel seemed to him ridiculously tiny
and insignificant, and her sparkling prettiness was altogether eclipsed
by Lesley's calmer beauty. He was not in an amiable mood. He had steeled
himself against the dictates of his own taste and conscience, to
encounter Caspar Brooke's cold stare and freezing word of conventional
welcome, because he longed so intensely for a last word with Lesley; but
he was now almost sorry that he had come. Lesley seemed utterly
indifferent to his presence. She certainly carried his flowers in her
hand, but she did not glance his way. On the contrary, she anxiously
watched the door from time to time, as if she awaited the coming of some
one who was slow to make his appearance. Who could the person be for
whom she looked? Oliver asked himself jealously. He had not the
slightest suspicion that she was watching for Maurice Kenyon. And
Maurice Kenyon did not come.

It was his absence that, as the evening wore on, made the color slip
from Lesley's cheeks and robbed her eyes of their first brightness. A
certain listlessness came over her. And Oliver, watching from his
corner, exulted in his heart, for he thought to himself--

"It is for me she is looking sad; and if she will but yield her will to
mine, I will win and wear her yet, in spite of all who would say me
nay."

It was a veritable love-madness, such as had not come upon him since the
days of his youth. He had had a fairly wide experience of love-making;
but never had he been so completely mastered by his passion as he was
now. The consideration that had once been so potent with