Mr. Forster was, as he himself often said, a grim old lawyer, without
any poetry or romance, but even he could not sit opposite the pale, pure
loveliness of Marion Hautville unmoved; there was something about her
that reminded one irresistibly of starlight, delicate, graceful, holy
veiled loveliness. She was slender and graceful, with a figure that was
charming now, but that promised, in years to come, to be superb; the
same promise of magnificent womanhood was in the lovely delicate face.
The pure profile, the delicate brows, the shining hair, braided Madonna
fashion, were all beautiful, but looking at her, one realized there was
greater beauty to come.

She looked across the table with a smile.

"And now, Mr. Forster, you have told me how London looks; tell me
something about my cousin, Mr. Carruthers."

He made some indifferent answer, and as he did so, he thought to
himself:

"Can it be possible, that with a chance of winning this lovely girl--one
of the richest heiresses in London--that Basil Carruthers has given his
heart to some worthless creature, who has spent his money and helped him
to prison?"

A question that, if our readers will kindly follow us, we will answer in
the succeeding chapters.