She stood up and faced Harry Luttrell.

In the depths of her eyes there appeared a sudden gravity, a certain wistfulness, almost a regret.
She spoke simply: "Iram indeed is gone with all his rose, And Jamshyd's seven-ringed cup--where, no one knows! But still a ruby kindles in the vine, And many a garden by the water blows." She had the air of one saying good-bye to many pleasant follies which for long had borne her company--and saying good-bye with a sort of doubt whether that which was in store for her would bring a greater happiness.
Harry Luttrell had no answer, and no very distinct comprehension of her mood.

But he was stirred by it.

For a little while they looked at one another without any words.

The air about them in that still hall vibrated with the emotions of violins.