Into the room there floated the soft, languorous strains of a waltz, the murmur of voices, the laughter of some of the people in the conservatory.

Stafford sat, his head still upon his hands, as if her were half stupefied.

And indeed he was.

He felt like a man who has been seized by the tentacles of an octopus, unable to struggle, unable to move, dumb-stricken, and incapable even of protest.
Sir Stephen had spoken of fate: Fate held Stafford under its iron heel, and the mockery of Fate's laughter mingled with the strains of the waltz, the murmur of voices.

Unconsciously he rose and looked round as if half dazed, and Sir Stephen came to him and laid both hands on his shoulders.
"I must not keep you any longer, my dear boy!" he said, with a fond, proud look.