He was quivering with eagerness.

"Thanks for coming to tell me," he said, hurriedly. "I will go and find her. Never fear for me. I'm not a fool."

"But, oh, my poor boy, I am not so sure of that," sighed the sister, secretly, as she left the room again with her partner.

As she pa.s.sed back through the drawing-room where the hostess was receiving her guests, her attention was attracted by the figure of a girl who was standing with her back to them, talking to Arthur Miles.

d.i.c.k Arden turned suddenly to her.

"Who is that?" he asked breathlessly.

Only the back, straight and slender, was visible, its white silk bodice leaving bare a neck that would not have degraded the Venus de Medici. A small head, crowned with ma.s.ses of rippled golden hair, was bent slightly to one side, showing a spray of lillies and a flash of diamonds. An enormous fan of snowy ostrich feathers formed a background to this faultless head.

d.i.c.k and Wyn were both artists. Simultaneously they moved forward, to catch a full view of the face belonging to a back which promised so rarely.

As they came towards her, the beauty turned in their direction, and a sigh of admiring wonder heaved Mr. Arden's breast as he gazed. It was Elsa.

Wyn knew her in the same instant that she recognized her astonishing beauty.

This was something far more wonderful than mere good looks. Regular features, a clear white skin, large eyes, good teeth, abundant hair--no doubt these are important factors in the structure of a woman, but Elsa possessed something far more subtle, more dangerous then any of these.

The trouble, the horror through which she had pa.s.sed had left something behind--an indefinable but real influence--a dash of sadness--a shadow, a suggestiveness, which gave to mouth and eyes a pathos calculated to drive the soberest of men out of his senses. Had she been brought up like other girls, among companions of her own age--gone to juvenile parties, stayed at fashionable watering places, attended a select boarding-school, she would, of course, have grown up handsome; nature had amply provided for that, but her beauty would have been robbed of what was its chief charm. As it was, she was not only lovely, but unique; and her superb physical health added a crowning touch to her dissimilarity from the pretty, delicate, more or less jaded and over-educated London girls who surrounded her.

As her eyes met Wyn's, she started, and came forward, with that bewitching shyness which was one of her great points.

"Oh, Wyn! Lady Mabel, here is Miss Allonby!"

Lady Mabel Wynch-Frere turned quickly.

"Why--so it is! I am charmed to meet you," she cried, with much _empress.e.m.e.nt_. "Of course, if I had only thought, Woodstead is your part of the world, is it not? What a charming part it seems! This house is lovely. I am so glad we came. Mr. Miles is painting Elsa's picture, you know. I think it will be a great success. And how is your work getting on?"

"Pretty well, thank you."

"I thought it must be! I have been, like everyone else, reading 'Cicely Montfort.' Is it true that it is to be dramatised?"

"I believe so."

"How proud you must be! it is so grand to feel that one has really done some good work, and swelled the list of useful women. You must come and see us as soon as you possibly can. Elsa is making a long stay with me.

She is only just come back to England, you know. She has been cruising in the Mediterranean with two of her aunts, in Mr. Percivale's yacht; and my brother has been with them for about six weeks--ever since he returned from Scotland; he is here to-night, have you seen him?"

"Yes, just to speak to. He said you and Miss Brabourne were here,"

returned Wyn feeling greatly mollified to hear that, by all accounts, Claud had not been in London since they parted in the summer.

"It has done the child so much good," said Lady Mabel, dropping her voice. "She is fast recovering, but she was desperately ill after--after that sad affair, you know. I daresay you wonder to see her at a ball so soon; but they dare not let her mope. The doctors said she must at all risks be kept happy and amused. The yachting was the saving of her, I do believe. It was Mr. Percivale's suggestion."

"Is he here to-night?" Wyn could not resist asking.

"Yes, somewhere. I do not see him just now, Mrs. Miles carried him off.

Ah! here he comes, with that girl in the primrose gown; is it not one of your sisters?"

"Yes,--Hilda," answered Wyn, with much interest. "Is that Mr. Percivale?

What a fine head!"

"Is it not?" said Lady Mabel, with enthusiasm. "You are an artist, you can appreciate it. Some people say he has red hair, and that his style is so _outre_; for my part, I do like a man who dares to be unlike other men! He has a distinct style of his own, and he knows it. He declines to clip and trim himself down to the level of everybody else! but there is nothing obtrusive about him."

This was true. As Percivale advanced, Wyn was constrained to admit that a more distinguished gentleman she had never beheld. His face fascinated her. It expressed so clearly the simple n.o.bility of his soul. He came up to where Lady Mabel was standing, Hilda Allonby on his arm, and then a number of introductions took place.

Suddenly, with impetuous footstep, a gentleman approached the group.

Elsa turned her face, and one of her slow, beautiful smiles dawned over eyes and mouth as, with perfect self-possession, she stretched out her hand in greeting.

It was Osmond; he was white as death, and so excited as to be unable to speak connectedly. He took the little white-gloved hand in his, and seemed at once to become oblivious of his surroundings. Wyn was obliged to remind him of his manners.

"Osmond, here is Lady Mabel."

Mr. Percivale, at the sound of the name, turned round suddenly, and for several seconds the two men remained looking one another in the face.

They presented the somewhat unusual spectacle of a pair of rivals, both of whom were quite determined to fight fair. But Percivale's tranquillity was in strong contrast to Osmond's flushed and manifest disorder. To Wyn there was something cruel about it--the rich yacht-owner, the poor, struggling artist. It could never be an even contest.

"We ought to be acquainted, Mr. Allonby," said Percivale, after a moment.

"Indeed? I have not the honor----" began Osmond, struggling for an indifferent manner.

"My name is Percivale," said the owner of the _Swan_. "Perhaps you may have heard it."

Osmond bowed. In the presence of Elsa, it was not possible to allude to the events which had brought the yacht to Edge Combe.

"I am glad to meet you, Mr. Percivale," he managed to say, with some stiffness. "Miss Brabourne, may I hope for the honor of a dance?"

Again the girl smiled at him, accompanying the smile with a look half mischievous, half pleading, and wholly inviting, as if deprecating the formality of his address.

"Yes, of course you may," she said, shyly. "Will you have this one?"

"Will I! May I?"

The rapturous monosyllables were all that he could command. Next instant he felt the light touch of that white glove on his coat-sleeve--he was walking away with her, out of reach of all observing eyes; he was floating in a Paradise of sudden, wild happiness. Of what was to come he recked nothing. The present was enough for him.

"Elsa!" he gasped, as soon as he could speak, "I thought you had forgotten me!"

"But I have not, you see."

"But you have not! I might have known it. Where shall we go--what shall we do? Do not let us dance, let us sit down somewhere; I have a thousand things that I must say."

But this suggestion was most displeasing to Miss Brabourne.

"Oh, but, please, you must dance," said she, in disappointed tones. "I want to practise, as I shall have to dance so much, and it is such a good opportunity for you to teach me!"

"To teach you! I expect I shall be the learner," cried Osmond; but in this he was mistaken.