She said good-bye to Glynn. Elsie followed her into the hall to speak some last words, and then returning, sat down on a low couch near the fire, and clasping her hands on her knee, gazed in dreamy silence at the glowing coals. Glynn, who stood leaning against the mantelpiece, waited and watched; the stillness, the loneliness, the isolation from all who had well known them, thrilled him with a strange sense of delicious power. Suddenly she said very softly, as if to herself:
"It will soon be a year since that day."
"What day?" asked Glynn.
"The day you came and dined with us at the Café de Madrid,—do you remember?"
"It is constantly in my thoughts; it is one of my most delightful memories! Do you know," coming and sitting down beside her, "that when I lie awake at night I recall the airs you sang that night, and hear again your delicious tones!"
"We were so happy then—at least I was."
"And I was," echoed Glynn. "I did not know how happy, until the misery of losing you taught me. Do you know that the horror of the whole thing nearly killed me? I had brain fever——"
"Had you!" cried Elsie, looking at him in great, sincere surprise. "It was very good of you to care so much! My father never said you tried to find me!"
"Why do you look so astonished?" he asked.
"Because—Oh, I shall tell you some day when I feel happier and braver."