with flowers, fragrant mignonette, lemon-scented verbenas, purple
heliotropes, all growing in rich profusion. The spray of the little
scented fountain sparkled in the sun. Every one agreed that there was no
other room in London like the grand drawing-room at Verdun House.

There was something on that bright May afternoon more beautiful even
than the flowers, the fountains, the bright-plumaged birds in their
handsome cages, the white statues, or the pictures; that was the
mistress and queen of all this magnificence, Philippa L'Estrange. She
was reclining on a couch that had been sent from Paris--a couch made of
finest ebony, and covered with pale, rose-colored velvet. If Titian or
Velasquez had seen her as she lay there, the world would have been the
richer by an immortal work of art; Titian alone could have reproduced
those rich, marvelous colors; that perfect, queenly beauty. He would
have painted the picture, and the world would have raved about its
beauty. The dark masses of waving hair; the lovely face with its warm
Southern tints; the dark eyes lighted with fire and passion; the perfect
mouth with its proud, sweet, imperial, yet tender lips; the white,
dimpled chin; the head and face unrivaled in their glorious contour; the
straight, dark brows that could frown and yet soften as few other brows
could; the white neck, half hidden, half revealed by the coquettish
dress; the white rounded arms and beautiful hands--all would have struck
the master. Her dress fell round her in folds that would have charmed an
artist. It was of some rich, transparent material, the pale amber hue of
which enhanced her dark loveliness. The white arms were half shown, half
covered by rich lace--in the waves of her dark hair lay a yellow rose.
She looked like a woman whose smile could be fatal and dangerous as that
of a siren, who could be madly loved or madly hated, yet to whom no man
living could be indifferent.