His emotions were indeed enviable--but one thing was wanting to complete his satisfaction--the presence of her, before whom, of all others, he was most eager to distinguish himself.

What mattered it that scarves and kerchiefs were waved to him by some of the fairest dames in the land?
What mattered it that his name was called aloud, and that gloves and knots of ribands fell at his feet, as he rode past the ladies' gallery?
His heart was untouched by smile or glance, and he paused not to pick up one of the favours showered upon him.
But what means this sudden change in his demeanour?
Why does he start and stop, and look inquiringly towards the back of the gallery?
Whom does he discern amongst that bevy of beauties?
Can it be Aveline?
And if so, how comes she there?
As he pauses, all eyes are fixed upon her towards whom his gaze is directed.

There is no difficulty in detecting the object of his regards, for her attire is simpler than that of all the glittering dames around her, and of a sadder hue.

Her confusion also betrays her.

She would not be seen by him she came to see.