There had been no sound, yet something warned him. He looked up. The door was closing.
"Lady Dawn," he called. In his voice there was the tremor of anxiety.
On the point of vanishing, she glanced back across her shoulder. "What is it, Lord Taborley?"
The calmness of her austerity made emotion seem shallow. There was a touch of scorn in her repose.
"Won't you help?"
She smiled faintly. "I was. I was going."
"Then please don't. It's late. Both you and she must be worn out."
Like a figure of silver, she came coldly back. But there was only tenderness in her voice when she spoke. "Terry, did you hear what Lord Taborley said? He thinks he ought to be going."
Slipping her arm about the girl, she led her from him. Their footsteps died out on the turret stairs.
He waited, hoping that Lady Dawn would return. Now that she was gone, he was invaded with his old loneliness. The dead lords eyed him cynically from their canvases. Through leaded panes the moonlight fell. It seemed the sorcery of her spirit. The perfume of the rose-garden was her breath. How pale she had made his dream of Terry! How trivial she made all women look when she stood beside them!