don't care about pale-blue silk, do they?" And she laughed again, such a
fresh, enjoyable little laugh, that he was ready to fall down and
worship her in his impulsive French fashion. Until Lady Throckmorton
came, she amused him with talking of England and the English people,
until the _naivete_ of her manner had an indescribable fascination for
him. He could have listened to her forever. She told him about Downport
and its small lines, unconsciously showing him more of her past life
than she fancied. Then, of course, she at last came to Broome street and
Miss Elizabeth, and Miss Priscilla, and--Mr. Denis Oglethorpe.

"He is very talented, indeed," she said. "He has written, oh! a great
deal. He once wrote a book of poems. I have the volume in one of my
trunks."

He looked at her quietly but keenly when she said this, and he did not
need more than a second glance to understand more than she understood
herself. He read where Mr. Denis Oglethorpe stood, by the queer, sudden
inner light in her eyes, and the unconscious fluctuation of rich color
in her bright glowing face. He was struck with a secret pang in a
second. There would be so frail a thread of hope for the man who was
only second with a girl like this one.

"I know the gentleman you speak of," he said, aloud. "We all know him.
He is a popular man. I saw him only a few weeks ago."

Her eyes flashed up to his--the whole of her face flashed with electric
light.

"Did you?" she said. "Where was he? I didn't know--" and there she
stopped.

"He was here," was the answer. "In Paris--in this very hotel, the day
before you came here. He had overworked himself, I think. He was looking
paler than usual, and somewhat worn-out. It was fatigue, I suppose."

Her eyes fell, and the light died away. She was thinking to herself that
he might have waited twenty-four hours longer--only a day--such a short
time. Just at that moment she felt passionately that she could not bear
to let him go back to England and Priscilla Gower without a farewell
word.

In all the whirl of excitement that filled her life, through all the
days that were full of it, and the nights that were fairly dazzling to
her unaccustomed eyes, she never forgot Denis Oglethorpe. She remembered
him always in the midst of it all, and now her remembrance was of a
different kind; there was more pain in it, more unrest, more longing and
strength. She had ripened wonderfully since that last night in Broome
street