When the Vicar and the Literary Man from London had gone, Zora threw open
the window and let the soft autumn air flood the room. Mrs. Oldrieve drew
her woolen shawl around her lean shoulders.

"I'm afraid you quite snubbed Mr. Rattenden, just when he was saying one of
his cleverest things."

"He said it to the wrong person, mother. I'm neither a faded life nor am I
going to be laid away in lavender. Do I look like it?"

She moved across the room, swiftly, and stood in the slanting light from
the window, offering herself for inspection. Nothing could be less like a
faded life than the magnificent, broad-hipped, full-bosomed woman that met
her mother's gaze. Her hair was auburn, her eyes brown with gold flecks,
her lips red, her cheeks clear and young. She was cast, physically, in
heroic mold, a creature of dancing blood and color and warmth. Disparaging
tea-parties called her an Amazon. The Vicar's wife regarded her as too
large and flaring and curvilinear for reputable good looks. She towered
over Nunsmere. Her presence disturbed the sedateness of the place. She was
a wrong note in its harmony.

Mrs. Oldrieve sighed. She was small and colorless. Her husband, a wild
explorer, a tornado of a man, had been killed by a buffalo. She was afraid
that Zora took after her father. Her younger daughter Emmy had also
inherited some of the Oldrieve restlessness and had gone on the stage. She
was playing now in musical comedy in London.

"I don't see why you should not be happy here, Zora," she remarked, "but if
you want to go, you must. I used to say the same to your poor, dear