Mr. Carlyon, who had been watching for his opportunity, buttonholed Maddison, and led him into a corner.
"I've got you now," he said triumphantly. "My dear fellow, whatever made you snub poor Sir Allan like that?"
"Never mind. Come and make your adieux to Lady Meltoun, and let us go. I should not have come here."
"One moment first, Maddison," the artist said seriously. "Do you remember those lines of yours in which a man and woman stand on a bare hill by a clump of pines, and watch the misty moonlight cast weird shadows upon the hillside and over the quivering sea? 'A Farewell,' you called it, I think?"
"Yes; I remember them."
"Maddison, the woman to whom I wished to introduce you bids you to go to her by the memory of those lines."
There was very little change in his face. It only grew a little more rigid, and a strange light gleamed in his eyes. But the hand which he had laid on Carlyon's arm to draw him towards Lady Meltoun suddenly tightened like a band of iron, till the artist nearly cried out with pain.
"Let go my arm, for God's sake, man!" he said in a low tone, "and I will take you to her."
"I am ready," Mr. Maddison answered quietly. "Ah! I see where she is. You need not come."
He crossed the room, absolutely heedless of more than one attempt to stop him. Mr. Carlyon watched him, and then with a sore heart bade his hostess farewell, and hurried away. He was generous enough to help another man to his happiness, but he could not stay and watch it.