At home with him, this hero, this king amongst men, whose presence filled her whole soul with light! It could never be.
"I had no idea," he continued, "that I had such a fair young kinswoman. Lady Vaughan had always written as though you were a child."
Her heart sank. Was this how he thought of her—was this what made him so kind and gracious to her?
"I am not a child," she said, with some little attempt at dignity, "I am more than eighteen."
"Quite a philosophic age," was the smiling reply. "Now, Hyacinth, tell me, what do you like to look at best—flowers, trees, or water?"
"I like all three," she said truthfully.
"Do you? Then I will find you a seat where you can see all. Here is one not too near the music."
He had found a quaint, pretty garden seat, under the shade of a tall spreading tree. In front of them were beds of lilies and roses, and the blue waters of the lake. The band began to play the sad, passionate music of Verdi's "Miserere;" and to Hyacinth Vaughan it seemed as though the earth had changed into heaven.
"Do you like music?" he said watching the changes on the beautiful young face.