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"And you'll suit it, my dear," said old Clara Darrant, with her bushy eyebrows and high lace collar (it was said that she believed herself the reincarnation of Queen Elizabeth). "I can see that you are going to be just right for it. Dear Wildherne has chosen well."

She could see that there was something in her of which they all approved. What this was she did not know, but in the midst of all her preoccupation this private thought rather miserably attacked her—that Wildherne had seen just this same quality and had chosen her for that as you might choose a chair or a table to go into a certain room because it suited the Period!

And then his kindliness drove that thought away. Never before, in her knowledge of him, had he been so right, so exactly feeling for her and with her in all the twists and turns of her situation, and when, at long last, she could move away with him slowly to another part of the room, she smiled at him her gratitude.

"You're tired?" he asked.

"Yes, a little—naturally. But they are all kinder than kind. Wildherne, do you approve of me? Is everything all right?"