been going to say, and she shrank from seeing what she felt she would
see, if Egypt and Claridge Pasha's name were mentioned. That night at
Harnley had burnt a thought into her mind which she did not like. Not
that she had any pity for Eglington; her thought was all for this girl
she loved. No happiness lay in the land of Egypt for her, whatever her
unhappiness here; and she knew that Hylda must be more unhappy still
before she was ever happy again, if that might be. There was that
concerning Eglington which Hylda did not know, yet which she must know
one day--and then! But why were Hylda's eyes so much brighter and softer
and deeper to-night? There was something expectant, hopeful, brooding in
them. They belonged not to the life moving round her, but were shining
in a land of their own, a land of promise. By an instinct in each of
them they stood listening for a moment to the last strains of the opera.
The light leaped higher in Hylda's eyes.

"Beautiful--oh, so beautiful!" she said, her hand touching the Duchess's
arm.

The Duchess gave the slim warm fingers a spasmodic little squeeze. "Yes,
darling, beautiful," she rejoined; and then the crowd began to pour out
behind them.

Their carriages were at the door. Lord Windlehurst put Hylda in. "The
House is up," he said. "You are going on somewhere?"

"No--home," she said, and smiled into his old, kind, questioning eyes.
"Home!"

"Home!" he murmured significantly as he turned towards the Duchess and
her carriage. "Home!" he repeated, and shook his head sadly.