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Valentine was sitting in her pretty drawing-room. It was dinner time, but she had not changed her dress. She was too young, too fresh, and unused to trouble, for it yet to leave any strong marks on her face. The delicate color in her cheeks had slightly paled, it is true, her bright hair was in confusion, and her eyes looked larger and more wistful than their wont, but otherwise no one could tell that her heart was beating heavily and that she was listening eagerly for a footstep.
Seven o'clock came -- half-past seven. This was Gerald's last night at home; he was to sail in the _Esperance_ for Sydney to-morrow. Valentine felt stunned and cold, though she kept on repeating to herself over and over: --