from a new-born purpose, the dream of an idealist. "I've been seeing
things that Verdi did not see, and of more account, too. . . .
Do you suppose the House is up yet?"

A strange look flashed into the Duchess's eyes, which had been watching
her with as much pity as interest. Hylda had not been near the House of
Commons this session, though she had read the reports with her usual
care. She had shunned the place.

"Why, did you expect Eglington?" the Duchess asked idly, yet she was
watchful too, alert for every movement in this life where the footsteps
of happiness were falling by the edge of a precipice, over which she
would not allow herself to look. She knew that Hylda did not expect
Eglington, for the decision to come to the opera was taken at the last
moment.

"Of course not--he doesn't know we are here. But if it wasn't too late,
I thought I'd go down and drive him home."

The Duchess veiled her look. Here was some new development in the
history which had been torturing her old eyes, which had given her and
Lord Windlehurst as many anxious moments as they had known in many a day,
and had formed them into a vigilance committee of two, who waited for the
critical hour when they should be needed.

"We'll go at once if you like," she replied. "The opera will be over
soon. We sent word to Windlehurst to join us, you remember, but he won't
come now; it's too late. So, we'll go, if you like."

She half rose, but the door of the box opened, and Lord Windlehurst