The parlour had been swept since the family council had deliberated
there over Jane's destiny. The scraps of cambric had been gathered up
from the threadbare arabesques in the carpet; the chairs had been placed
at respectable distances apart; the gas-jets in the chandelier were
flaming extravagantly under the damaged garlands; and the sewing machine
had been wheeled into the obscurity of the hail, for it would have
humiliated Gabriella's mother to think that her daughter received young
men in a room which looked as if somebody had worked there.

When Gabriella entered, Arthur Peyton was standing in front of the
fireplace, gazing abstractedly at his reflection in the French mirror.
Though his chestnut hair was carefully brushed, he had instinctively
lifted his hand to smooth down an imaginary lock, and while he did this,
he frowned slightly as if at a recollection that had ruffled his temper.
His features were straight and very narrow, with the look of
sensitiveness one associates with the thoroughbred, and the delicate
texture of his skin emphasized this quality of high-breeding, which was
the only thing that one remembered about him. In his light-gray eyes
there was a sympathetic expression which invariably won the hearts of
old ladies, and these old ladies were certain to say of him afterward,
"such a gentleman, my dear--almost of the old school, you know, and we
haven't many of them left in this hurrying age."

He had done well, though not brilliantly, at college, for his mind, if
unoriginal, had never given anybody, not even his mother, the least bit
of trouble. For three years he had worked with admirable regularity in
the office of his uncle, Carter Peyton, one of the most distinguished
lawyers in the Virginia of his period, and it was generally felt that
young Arthur Peyton would have "a brilliant future." For the present,