and upon her cheek, as in that last dance; and with
an inexpressible hunger at once of flesh and soul she yearned to feel
them all again, to be once more within the magic circle of his arms,
to live once more in the light of his countenance.

It mattered nothing that she loved hopelessly a graceless
runagate--and knew it well. She had not needed the indirect warnings
of Adele Standish and Mercedes Pride that the man was nothing better
than an engaging scamp. Who was she to demand worthier object for her
love? She was precisely Nobody, and might waste her passion as she
would, and none but herself the worse for it.

Nor did it matter that her love was desperate of return. She knew that
he recognised and was a little amused and a little flattered by her
unspoken admiration, but more deeply than that affected not at all.
But that was his imperial prerogative; she did not mind; temporarily
she believed herself quite content, and that she would continue so as
long as permitted to hug to her secret heart the unutterable sweetness
of being in love with him. Again, she was Nobody and didn't count,
while he was precisely all that she had longed for ever since she was
of an age to dream of love. He was not only of an admirable
person, he wore the habit of distinction like a garment made for him
alone. In short, the man was irresistible, and the woman didn't even
want to resist but only despaired of opportunity ever to capitulate.

She was as love-sick as a schoolgirl of sixteen; a hundred times, if
once, her barely parted lips breathed his name to the sympathetic
night that never would betray her: "_Donald--Donald--Donald
Lyttleton_. . . ."

Now all the while she wasted sighing for him by the window Mr.
Lyttleton spent idly speculating about her--lounging in a corner of
the smoking-room, on the edge of a circle of other masculine guests
making common excuse of alcohol to defer the tiresome formalities of
going to bed and getting up again in the morning.

If this gentleman was Sally's junior in the matter of a year or two,
he was overwhelmingly her senior in knowledge of his world--a world
into which he had been brought neither to toil nor yet to spin, but
simply to be the life and soul of the party. And at twenty-five he was
beyond permitting sentiment to run away with judgment; he could resist
temptation with as much fortitude as any man, always providing he
could see any sound reason for resisting it--any reason, that is,