Valerie leaned against the wall, and the draperies of the window veiled her from all the guests, save Maltravers; and between her and himself was a large marble vase filled with flowers; and by that uncertain light Valerie's brilliant cheek looked pale, and soft, and thoughtful.

Maltravers never before felt so much in love with the beautiful Frenchwoman.
"Ah, madam!" said he, softly; "there is one error, if it be so, that never can cost me shame." "Indeed!" said Valerie with an unaffected start, for she was not aware he was so near her.

As she spoke she began plucking (it is a common woman's trick) the flowers from the vase between her and Ernest.

That small, delicate, almost transparent hand!--Maltravers gazed upon the hand, then on the countenance, then on the hand again.

The scene swam before him, and, involuntarily and as by an irresistible impulse, the next moment that hand was in his own.
"Pardon me--pardon me," said he, falteringly; "but that error is in the feelings that I know for you." Valerie lifted on him her large and radiant eyes, and made no answer.
Maltravers went on.