her
companion, but, just as he was about to put a question, the General and
the young lady paused in front, to let the rest of the party come up
with them. Miss Floyd proposed a seat a little way down the slope, where
they might wait the half-hour appointed.

That half-hour passed quickly for all concerned. In looking back upon it
afterwards two of the party were conscious that it had all hung upon one
person. Daphne Floyd sat beside the General, who paid her a
half-reluctant, half-fascinated attention. Without any apparent effort
on her part she became indeed the centre of the group who sat or lay on
the grass. All faces were turned towards her, and presently all ears
listened for her remarks. Her talk was young and vivacious, nothing
more. But all she said came, as it were, steeped in personality, a
personality so energetic, so charged with movement and with action that
it arrested the spectators--not always agreeably. It was like the
passage of a train through the darkness, when, for the moment, the
quietest landscape turns to fire and force.

The comparison suggested itself to Captain Boyson as he lay watching
her, only to be received with an inward mockery, half bitter, half
amused. This girl was always awakening in him these violent or desperate
images. Was it her fault that she possessed those brilliant eyes--eyes,
as it seemed, of the typical, essential woman?--and that downy brunette
skin, with the tinge in it of damask red?--and that instinctive art of
lovely gesture in which her whole being seemed to express itself?
Boyson, who was not only a rising soldier, but an excellent amateur
artist, knew every line of the face by heart. He had drawn Miss Daphne
from the life on several occasions; and from memory scores of times. He
was not likely to draw her from life any more; and thereby hung a tale.
As far as he was concerned the train had passed--in flame and
fury--leaving an echoing silence behind it.

What folly! He turned resolutely to Mrs. Verrier, and tried to discuss
with her an exhibition of French art recently opened in Washington. In
vain. After a few sentences, the talk between them dropped, and both he
and she were once more watching Miss Floyd, and joining in the
conversation whenever she chose to draw them in.

As for Roger Barnes, he too was steadily subjugated--up to a certain
point. He was not sure that he liked Miss Floyd, or her conversation.
She was so much mistress of herself and of the co