Vernon red, although that is very good and we are proud of it, as the
sheen of gold is from the glitter of brass. I knew by the girl's hair
that she was my cousin, Dorothy Vernon, whom I reluctantly had come to
wed.

I asked myself, "Can this be the plain, freckled girl I knew seven years
ago?" Compared with her beauty even Mary Stuart's was pale as the vapid
moon at dawn. The girl seemed to be the incarnated spirit of universal
life and light, and I had condescendingly come to marry this goddess. I
felt a dash of contemptuous pity for my complacent self.

In my cogitations concerning marriage with Dorothy Vernon, I had not at
all taken into consideration her personal inclination. A girl, after all,
is but the chattel of her father, and must, perforce, if needs be, marry
the man who is chosen for her. But leaving parental authority out of the
question, a girl with brick-red hair and a multitude of freckles need not
be considered when an agreeable, handsome man offers himself as a husband.
She usually is willing to the point of eagerness. That is the manner in
which I had thought about Dorothy Vernon, if I considered her at all. But
when a man is about to offer himself to a goddess, he is apt to pause. In
such a case there are always two sides to the question, and nine chances
to one the goddess will coolly take possession of both. When I saw Dorothy
in the courtyard of The Peacock, I instantly knew that she was a girl to
be taken into account in all matters wherein she was personally concerned.
Her every feature, every poise and gesture, unconsciously bore the stamp
of "I will" or "I will not."

Walking by Dorothy's side, holding her hand, was a fair young woman whose
hair was black, and whose skin was of the white, clear complexion such as
we see in the faces of nuns. She walked with a hesitating, cautious step,