And he walked up a broad flight of steps.
But Leycester stopped suddenly; for a figure came out of one of the windows, and stood looking down at them.
It was a woman, gracefully and beautifully dressed in some softly-hued evening robe. He could not see her face, but he knew her, and turned almost angrily to Lord Charles. But Lord Charles had slipped away, muttering something about the horses, and Leycester went slowly up.
Lenore—it was she—awaited his approach all unconsciously. She could not see him as plainly as he saw her, and she took him for some strange chance visitor.
But as he came up and stood in front of her she recognized him, and, with a low cry, she moved toward him, her lovely face suddenly smitten pale, her violet eyes fixed on him yearningly.
"Leycester!" she said, and overcome for the moment by the suddenness of his presence, she staggered slightly.
He could do no less than put his arm round her, for he thought she would have fallen, and as he did so his heart reproached him, for the one word "Leycester," and the tone told her story. His mother was right. She loved him.
"Lenore," he said, and his deep, grave, musical voice trembled slightly. She lay back in his arms for a moment, looking up at him with an expression of helpless resignation in her eyes, her lovely face revealed in the light which poured from the window full upon her.
"Lenore," he said, huskily, "what—what is this?"