He thought her even more dazzlingly beautiful than when he had seen her at the opera.  The perfume of the white daphnes must have touched his senses as those most lovely eyes smiled into his; his brain seemed to reel; he was intoxicated with her beauty as some men are with the fumes of rare wine.

Colonel Mostyn lingered for a few minutes, then, well satisfied, went away, leaving Basil and Lady Amelie together.  She had taken her seat under the shade of a magnificent mass of gorgeous, blooming flowers, with wondrous leaves and rich perfume.  As she sat with her gleaming dress and jewels showing to perfection, from against this beautiful background, Basil was completely charmed.  In all his life he had never even seen such a picture.  She turned to him, when they were alone, with the sweetest smile on her lovely lips; her eyes seemed to rain down light into his.

“This is a brilliant scene, Mr. Carruthers; the duchess excels in the arrangement of her rooms.”

He made some reply; he never quite knew what it was.  It was enough for him to watch the charm of that irresistible face as she spoke.  “Of course, everything depends on taste,” she continued; “I quite expect you to laugh at me, but do you know what scene I should find much more brilliant than this?”

“I cannot imagine,” he replied; “but I shall not laugh.”

“Ah, well.  I am peculiar in my tastes.  In place of this brilliant ballroom, I should like to be seated at a tournament.  I should like to see the knights with their banners and waving plumes, in the lists—­the ladies in their balconies all hung with cloth of gold—­the queen of beauty with the prize.  Ah, me! in those days, ladies had knights and men were heroes.”

As he looked at her, his whole soul shone in his eyes.

“And I, too,” he cried.  “I love those days ten thousand times better than these.”

“Do you?” asked her ladyship with admiring eyes, “how strange!  It is not long since I was speaking to one whom I may call a young man of the period, and his reply was, ’Horrid bore, those kind of things were, Lady Lisle,’ and I thought most young men were of his opinion.”

“I am not,” said Basil, “I love those knights and heroes of old! great men and grand men who were content to ride forth, and to battle unto death for a woman’s smile.”

She raised her radiant eyes to his.

“Would you do that much for a woman’s smile, Mr. Carruthers?”

He paused a moment before speaking, then said:  “For one such woman as those men loved, I would.”  She sighed deeply; the jewels on her white breast gleamed and glistened.

“Ah, you think, then, that the glorious race of women heroes loved and died for, have disappeared?”

“I thought so, until I saw you,” he replied.

“You are wrong,” she said.  “You will live to tell me that you are wrong.  There may be no Helen such as she who lived at Troy, and no Cleopatra such as Egypt’s dusky queen, but there are grand women living yet, worthy of heroes’ love.”