And at length he
looked.
With thrill of marvelling and rapture, with chill of self-abasement.
When, years ago, he saw Irene in the dress of ceremony, she seemed
to him peerlessly radiant; but it was the beauty and the dignity of
one still girlish. What he now beheld was the exquisite fulfilment
of that bright promise. He had not erred in worship; she who had
ever been to him the light of life, the beacon of his passionate
soul, shone before him supreme among women. What head so noble in
its unconscious royalty! What form so faultless in its mould and
bearing! He heard her speak--the graceful nothings of introduction
and recognition; it was Irene's voice toned to a fuller music. Then
her face dazzled, grew distant; he turned away to command himself.
Mrs. Borisoff spoke beside him.
"Have you no good-evening for me?"
"So this is what you meant?"
"You have a way of speaking in riddles."
"And you--a way of acting divinely. Tell me," his voice sank, and
his words were hurried. "May I go up to her as any acquaintance
would? May I presume that she knows me?"
"You mean Miss Derwent? But--why not? I don't understand you."
"No--I forget--it seems to you absurd. Of course--she wrote
and introduced me to you----"
"You are amusing--which is more than can be said of everyone."
She bent her head and turned to speak with someone else. Piers, with
what courage he knew not, stepped across the carpet to where Miss
Derwent was sitting.
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