grave.  She may know that a dozen words would fill his heart with joy, and that all life would smile to both henceforth, but she cannot force her way to his side in public; she cannot desert without ceremony the stranger who is conversing courteously; she cannot cry out, she may not even speak, it may be that it is not possible that she should leave her place—­and he who is her heart’s blood approaches slowly—­is near—­has passed—­is gone—­and all has come to bitter, cruel end.  In my lord Duke of Osmonde’s mind there was no thought of anguish or the need for it; he but realised that he had felt an unreasonable pang when she whom he had so desired to behold had passed him by unnoticed.  ’Twas after all a mere trick of chance, and recalled to him the morning two years before, when he had heard her horse’s feet splashing through the mire of the narrow lane, and had drawn his own beast aside while she galloped past unaware of his nearness, and with the strange, absorbed, and almost fierce look in her eyes.  He had involuntarily gathered his bridle to follow her and then had checked his impulse, realising its impetuousness, and had turned to ride homeward with a half smile on his lips but with his heart throbbing hard.  But what perchance struck him most to-night, was that her eyes wore a look unlike, yet somehow akin, to that which he had marked and been moved by then—­as if storm were hid within their shadows and she herself was like some fine wild thing at bay.

There would have been little becomingness in his hastening after her and his Lordship of Dunstanwolde; his court to her must be paid with grace and considerateness.  If there were men who in their eagerness forgot their wit and tact, he was not one of them.

He turned to re-enter the ball-room and approach her there, and on the threshold encountered young Colin, who looked for the moment pale.

“Did you see her?” he asked.  “She has but just passed through the room with my Lord Dunstanwolde—­Mistress Clorinda,” he added, with a little rueful laugh.  “In Gloucestershire there is but one ‘she.’  When we speak of the others we use their names and call them Mistress Margaret or my Lady Betty—­or Jane.”

“I stood at the head of the stairway as she passed,” answered Osmonde.

“It cannot be true,” the lad broke forth; “it makes me mad even to hear it spoke—­though he is a courtly gentleman and rich and of high standing—­but he is old enough to be her grandfather.  Though she is such a woman, she is but seventeen, and my lord is near seventy.”

Osmonde turned an inquiring gaze upon him, and the boy broke into his confused half-laugh again.

“I speak of my Lord Dunstanwolde,” he said.  “Twice he has asked her to be his Countess, and all say that to-night she is to give him her answer.  Jack Oxon has heard it and is mad enough.  Look at him as he stands by the archway there.  His eyes are like blue steel and he can scarce hide his rage.  But better she should take Dunstanwolde than Jack”—­hotly.