It was quite likely that De Vere would see the difference between his lowly born love and the real ladies in the room, as Lady Adela had said, but that he would be disenchanted was quite another matter. There certainly appeared to be no chance of it now. He was charmed with the splendid musical talent she had evinced. He felt a glow of pride in her as if she belonged to him already.

"You have done splendidly," he whispered, as he hung delightedly over her. "There is not a lady in the room who can do half so well."

"Thank you," she replied, demurely. "But you had better give me another piece. I am here to play, not to talk."

He longed to say, "Give me the right to place you on an equality with these women as my wife," but he was afraid to venture yet. Something in her cold, careless manner forbade the thought. He said to himself that he must wait until he knew her longer and had wooed her more. She was not to be lightly won, this beautiful gifted girl. She was proud and sensitive. He would have to bide his time.

So with a smothered sigh he placed before her several pieces, and while she played he stood silently by her side, turning the leaves of her music, and gazing into the beautiful, soulful face, proud and glad in the privilege he enjoyed of being so near her.

When she had played several instrumental pieces brilliantly, he placed another song before her.

"Let me hear if you can sing as well as you can play," he pleaded.

She glanced at the song. It was Longfellow's "Bridge."

"Yes, I will sing it," she said; and again there fell a hush of silence as the sweet and well-trained voice filled the room with its melody. De Vere was fain to acknowledge that she sung as well as she played.

When she had sung the last line she looked up into his face.

"Will you play or sing something now while I rest?" she asked.

"I never knew how unfortunate I was before in having no talent for music," he said, ruefully. "I should like to oblige you so much, but I have no more voice than a raven, Miss West. I will call Lancaster. He can sing like a seraph."

"Oh, pray don't!" she cried; but he had already turned around.

"Lancaster," he called, "won't you come and sing something while Miss West has a breathing-spell?"

He came forward at once. He thought it would be very pleasant to displace De Vere for a moment, to stand by her side and watch her exquisite face and the glancing white hands as they moved over the shining pearl keys.

"Pray do not rise," he said, bending over her, hurriedly; "I will sing, but I shall want you to play my accompaniment."

She bowed silently, and he selected a piece of music and placed it before her. It was that beautiful song, "My Queen."

"He is going to sing to Lady Adela," the girl said to herself, a little disdainfully, but her touch was firm and unfaltering as she struck the chords while Lord Lancaster sung:

De Vere did not like his friend's selection much. He regretted that he had asked him to sing.

"It sounds like he was singing to her," he said, discontentedly to himself as he watched the couple at the piano. "What does the fellow mean, and what will Lady Adela think?" he wondered; and glancing toward her he saw that she was looking very cross over the top of her fan. Truth to tell, she was very much in doubt whether to appropriate the song to herself.

When the song was ended De Vere, who had lingered jealously near the piano, went up to Leonora's side.

"I thought you were going to rest while some one else sung," he said, reproachfully.

She glanced up with a smile at Lord Lancaster.

"So I was," she replied, lightly, "but Captain Lancaster wished me to play while he sung for Lady Adela. So of course I could not refuse."

Lancaster gazed into her face with amazement. Was she indeed so blind, or did she purposely slight the tribute he had paid to her, and which he had believed she could not fail to understand? Angered and chagrined, he bowed his thanks coldly, and retired from the piano, leaving a fair field for his rival.

He went out through the open window and wandered into the grounds, driven from her presence by the pain of her coldness, her studied indifference. There was a gulf between them that grew wider and wider at every effort he made to bridge it.

"Heaven help me! I am a fool to waste my heart on one who laughs at my love," he said to himself. "I will tear her from my heart. I will never show her again the tenderness of a heart she chooses to trample. She will choose De Vere. That is wise. He is rich, I have nothing but Lancaster. Yet, if she would love me, I could bear poverty without a sigh, deeming myself rich in her affection."

His aimless walk led him to the Magic Mirror, where he had come upon her so suddenly and with such irrepressible joy that night. If only she had listened to him then, she would have known the whole story of that passionate love wherewith he loved her—she did not even care to hear, he said to himself with bitter pain and humiliation as he gazed into the clear pool from which her face had shone on him that night, and fooled him with the love he thought he saw on the lips and in the eyes.

He had always been gay and light-hearted until now, but an hour of profound bitterness came to him to-night alone in the odorous moonlit stillness. The words of Leonora's song seemed to echo in his brain:

"I wish that I could go back to my regiment to-morrow," he thought. "Why should I linger on here, and how will it all end, I wonder? Will De Vere marry Leonora? shall I marry Lady Adela? What will fate do with the tangled thread of our lives, I wonder?"

He went back to the house, and he found that Leonora was gone, and that De Vere had gone over to the fauteuil, and was talking to the earl's daughter. Several of the men had formed a coterie around Lady Lancaster, and were good-naturedly upbraiding her because she had declined to present them to the beautiful musician.

"I could not do it, really," said the dowager. "She is not in our set at all. She is a mere nobody, the dependent niece of my housekeeper."

"Well, but Lancaster and De Vere were quite hand-in-glove with her," objected one.

"A mere accidental acquaintance. She came over from America with them," said the dowager, carelessly.

In fact, she was inwardly raging with vexation. Her clever plan for annihilating Leonora had failed. The girl had appeared to much more advantage than she had expected—had created a sensation, in fact. The men were all in raptures, the women were all angry and jealous, and Leonora's modest withdrawal from the scene as soon as she arose from the piano was felt by all as a relief.

Lieutenant De Vere had gone with her as far as the door. He had held her hand a minute in saying good-night.

"May I come into Mrs. West's room and see you to-morrow?" he asked, with an entreating glance into the bright eyes, and he saw a gleam of mischief shining in them.

"Will Lady Lancaster permit you to do so?" she inquired, demurely.

"Yes," he replied, "I have told her quite frankly the reason why I came to Lancaster Park, and she had nothing to say against it. If you will let me see you to-morrow, I will tell you what I told her," he continued, with his heart beating fast as he gazed at her fresh young beauty.

She was very thoughtful for an instant. She seemed to be making up her mind.

"You must not say no," he said, hastily. "I assure you that Lady Lancaster will have no objection to my doing so, if your aunt will permit me. May I come?"

Leonora raised her eyes gravely to his face.

"Yes, you may come," she answered, and then turned quickly away.