Lady Ethelrida stood looking out of her window, in her fresh, white-paneled, lilac-chintzed bower.  Her heart was actually thumping now.  She had not noticed the books, which were carefully placed in a pile down beside her writing table.  Would he ever get away from her father, who seemed to have taken to having endless political discussions with him?  Would he ever be able to come in time to talk for a moment, before they must both go down?  She had taken the precaution to make herself quite ready to start—­short skirt, soft felt hat, thick boots and all.

Would he?  But as half-past ten chimed from the Dresden clock on the mantelpiece, there was a gentle tap at the door, and Francis Markrute came in.

He knew in an instant, experienced fowler that he was, that his bird was fluttered with expectancy, and it gave him an exquisite thrill.  He was perfectly cognizant of the value of investing simple circumstances with delightful mystery, at times; and he knew, to the Lady Ethelrida, this trysting with him had become a momentous thing.

“You see, I found the way,” he said softly, and he allowed something of the joy and tenderness he felt to come into his voice.

And Lady Ethelrida answered a little nervously that she was glad, and then continued quickly that she must show him her bookcases, because there was so little time.

“Only one short half-hour—­if you will let me stay so long,” he pleaded.

In his hand he carried the original volume he had spoken about, a very old edition of Shakespeare’s Sonnets, from which he had carefully had one or two removed.  It was exquisitely bound and tooled, and had her monogram worked into a beautiful little medallion—­a work of art.  He handed it to her first.

“This I ventured to have ordered for you long ago,” he said.  “Six weeks it is nearly, and I so feared until yesterday that you would not let me give it to you.  It does not mean for your birthday:  it is our original bond of acquaintance.”

“It is too beautiful,” said Lady Ethelrida, looking down.

“And over there by your writing table”—­he had carefully ascertained this locality from Heinrich—­“you will find the books that are my birthday gift, if you will give me the delight of accepting them.”

She went forward with a little cry of surprise and pleasure, while, instantaneously, the wonder of how he should know where they would be presented itself to her mind.

They were about six volumes.  A Heine, a couple of de Musset’s, and then three volumes of selected poems, from numbers of the English poets.  Lady Ethelrida picked them up delightedly.  They, too, were works of art, in their soft mauve morocco bindings, chiffre, with her monogram like the other, and tooled with gold.

“How enchanting!” she said.  “And look!  They match my room.  How could you have guessed—?” And then she broke off and again looked down.