It was at a reception given in the Foreign Office.

Joan's dress had been trodden on and torn.

She had struggled out of the crowd into an empty room, and was examining the damage somewhat ruefully, when she heard a voice behind her, proffering help.

It was a hard, cold voice, that yet sounded familiar, and she turned.
There was no forgetting those deep, burning eyes, though the face had changed.

The thin red lips still remained its one touch of colour; but the unhealthy whiteness of the skin had given place to a delicate pallor; and the features that had been indistinct had shaped themselves in fine, firm lines.