"I have never even heard the name," I replied.

"Mademoiselle is the daughter of the late Sir Barnard's cousin; she has
been living here for the past five years. Sir Barnard, I believe,
adopted her. I thought perhaps Messrs. Moreland & Paine might have
mentioned her."

They had perhaps forgotten to do so, and I felt quite at a loss what to
do. However, if there was a lady in the house, I was bound to be
courteous; so I went to the drawing-room.

I attempt no description of that magnificent room, its treasures of art,
its statues, pictures, flowers, its wonders of bric-a-brac. For the
first minute my eyes were dazzled, and then I saw--

Well, I had read in the old poets' descriptions of sirens' wondrous
language, wondrous words telling of beauty almost divine in its
radiance--of golden hair that had caught the sunshine and held it
captive--of eyes like lode-stars, in whose depths men lost
themselves--of lovely scarlet lips that could smile and threaten. I saw
such loveliness before me now.

From the luxurious depths of a crimson velvet fauteuil rose a lovely
woman, who advanced to meet me with outstretched hands. Her mourning
dress fell in graceful folds around her tall, queenly figure, and from
the same dark dress her fair face and golden head shone out bright and
luminous as a jewel from a dark background.

"Sir Edgar Trevelyan," she said, "allow me to welcome you home."