Graydon was a long time away, longer than he had ever been before when
acting as her escort. While she felt this neglect, and interpreted it
naturally, she was not sorry. She dreaded meeting him again. In one
brief hour her old ease and freedom with him had gone. She wondered at
the change in herself, yet knew that it was as definite and decided as
if she had become another person. When be had brought her the glass
of water she could look into his face with the frank directness of a
child. Why could she not do so now? Why did she almost tremble at the
thought of his glance, his touch, his presence? She knew that he would
come back with his old genial, kindly manner--that he would be
the same. But a change had occurred in her which made the fabled
transmutations of magic wands seem superficial indeed. Would he note
this change? Could he guess the cause? Oh, what _was_ the cause? Even
her pale face grew crimson, for there are truths that come to the
consciousness like the lightning from heaven. She did not need to
think, to weigh and reason. A woman's heart is often above and beyond
her reason, and hers had been awakened at last by the all-powerful
touch of love.

The time passed, and still Graydon did not come. He was not absent
very long, and yet it began to seem terribly long to her. She had
overrated her powers, and found that even pride could not sustain her.
She had no reserve of strength to draw upon. The heat of the room grew
oppressive, and she was unaccustomed to throngs, confusion, and noise.
The consciousness of her weakness was forced upon her most painfully
at last by the appearance of Miss Wildmere on Graydon's arm. The
belle was smiling, radiant, her step elastic, her eyes shining with
excitement and pleasure. Her practiced scrutiny had assured her that
she was the queen of the hour; the handsomest and most courtly man