He chatted a moment, greeted Lord Newhaven, and passed on into the
crowded rooms. How could any one have guessed it? No breath of scandal
had ever touched Lady Newhaven. She stood beside her pink orchids, near
her fatigued-looking, gentle-mannered husband, a very pretty woman in
white satin and diamonds. Perhaps her blond hair was a shade darker at
the roots than in its waved coils; perhaps her blue eyes did not look
quite in harmony with their blue-black lashes; but the whole effect had
the delicate, conventional perfection of a cleverly touched-up
chromo-lithograph. Of course, tastes differ. Some people like
chromo-lithographs, others don't. But even those who do are apt to
become estranged. They may inspire love, admiration, but never fidelity.
Most of us have in our time hammered nails into our walls which, though
they now decorously support the engravings and etchings of our maturer
years, were nevertheless originally driven in to uphold the cherished,
the long since discarded chromos of our foolish youth.

The diamond sun upon Lady Newhaven's breast quivered a little, a very
little, as Hugh greeted her, and she turned to offer the same small
smile and gloved hand to the next comer, whose name was leaping before
him from one footman to another.

"Mr. Richard Vernon."

Lady Newhaven's wide blue eyes looked vague. Her hand hesitated. This
strongly built, ill-dressed man, with his keen, brown, deeply scarred
face and crooked mouth, was unknown to her.

Lord Newhaven darted forward.