And, absurdly, while the drift of glamour and regret floated by, and while she sat with Franklin's arm about her, her hand in his, it seemed to shape itself for a moment into the gay, irresponsible face of Gerald Digby.

Absurd, indeed; he was neither earnest nor ardent, and if he were he would never feel earnestness or ardour on her account.
Franklin certainly responded, in that respect, to the requirements of her dream.

Yet--ah, yet--he responded in no other.

It was not enough to have eyes only for her.

A hero should draw others' eyes upon him; should have rays that others could recognise.