It is fortunate that the shaded and softly subdued lamps in Evie Ravensdale’s study are low, or certainly the look in Hector D’Estrange’s face would have betrayed the secret of Gloria de Lara. As it is, he only laughs softly.
“So I am your woman’s ideal, am I, Evie?” he asks in a would-be bantering tone.
“Yes, Hector, you are. Your face is too lovely for a man’s. You ought to have been a woman. And yet if you had been, the glory of Hector D’Estrange would be an untold tale. There is, alas! no woman living, I fear, who would have been able to beat down the laws that held her enchained as you have done. How the women worship you, Hector, and rightly.”
The front door bell is pealing. In a few minutes the study door is opened, and Lady Flora Desmond is announced.
She comes in easy and graceful, her White Guard’s uniform fitting to perfection her supple and agile form. People have grown accustomed to Hector D’Estrange’s women volunteers. The uniforms no longer strike them as strange and unfeminine, for custom is the surest cure with offended Mrs. Grundy.
“What a dense crowd there is, to be sure!” she exclaims, after first greetings have been exchanged. “I had hard work to get my guards through it. But they are in order now, and a clear way is kept right up to Westminster, so you will have no difficulty in getting your carriage along, Mr. D’Estrange.”
“Is it so late?” he inquires in a surprised tone. “Evie and I have been talking away, and did not notice how the time was slipping. Pray wait here. I shall not be many minutes dressing. I must wear my White Guard’s uniform to-night, you know.”
“Very well, Mr. D’Estrange. I will wait for you here,” she replies. There is a ring in Flora Desmond’s voice which tells how happy she is. She has never dreamed of seeing such a day as this.
He is standing on the steps of Montragee House, clad in his White Guard’s uniform. A long line of the White Regiment keep the road clear to Westminster. The crowd is dense all round. Nothing but a sea of faces can be seen, and the cheers of the people have grown into a hoarse, continuous roar. Thousands and thousands of women are amongst that crowd, women, with hearts full of love and devotion for their hero; women who would account it a happiness to die for him at any hour; women who are strong in their gratitude for what he has done, and is trying to do for them. He has entered the carriage that stands in waiting in front of the ducal mansion, and with Evie Ravensdale has taken his seat therein. As it drives rapidly towards Westminster the mighty volume of cheering is again and again renewed, a few hisses being here and there noticeable.