The drive seemed all too short, and there were their two cavaliers in the court-yard awaiting them at the Reservoirs, having arrived just before them.

To the end of her life Theodora will remember that glorious May day.  Its even minutest detail, the color of the chestnut-trees, the tint of the sky, the scent in the air, every line of his figure and turn of his head, every look in his eyes—­and they were many and varied—­and also and alas! every growing emotion in her own heart.  But at the moment all was gladness, and exquisite, young, irresponsible joy. Sans arriere-pensee or disquieting reflection.

She wondered which of the two men was the handsomer as she got out of the automobile—­dear, darling papa or Lord Bracondale; both were quite show creatures of their age, and both were of the same class and knowledge of savoir-vivre.  Every one said such polite and gracious things, it was all so smooth and gay, and it seemed so natural that they should take a turn up towards the chateau while breakfast was being prepared.

Half-past one o’clock was time enough to eat, the widow said.

“I want to show you a number of spots I love,” Hector announced, choosing a different path to the other pair.  “And it is a day we can be happy in, can’t we?”

“I want to be happy,” said Theodora.

“Then we shall go no farther now; we shall sit on this seat and admire the view.  See, we are quite alone and undisturbed; all the world has gone home to breakfast.”

Then he looked at her, and though he really did try at this stage to be reasonable, something of the intense attraction he felt for her blazed in his eyes.

She was sufficiently delectable a picture to turn the sagest head.  There was something so absolutely pure white about that skin, it seemed good to eat, flawless, unlined, unblemished, under this brilliant light.

The way her silvery blond hair grew was just the right way a woman’s hair ought to grow, he thought; low on a high, broad brow, rippling and soft, and quantities of it.  What could it be like to caress it, to run one’s fingers through it, to bury one’s face in it?  Ah! and then there were her tender eyes, dewy and shadowed with dark lashes, and so intensely blue.  His glance wandered farther afield.  Such a figure! slender and graceful and fine.  There was something almost childish about it all; the innocent look of a very young girl, with the polish of the woman, garbed by an artist.  It seemed the great pearls in her ears were not more milkily white than her throat, and he was sure were also her little slender hands, that did not fidget, but lay idly in her lap, holding her blue parasol.  He would like to have taken off her gloves to see.

Passionate devotion was surging up in his breast.

And he was an Englishman, and it was still the morning.  There was no moon now and he had not even breakfasted!  This shows sufficiently to what state he had come.