perfume."

And there, at her side, was bowing, in cinnamon and crimson, with
jewelled buttons on his velvet coat, the beautiful being whose fair locks
the sun had shone on the morning she had watched him ride away--the man
whom the imperial beauty had dismissed and called a popinjay.

Clorinda looked under her lashes towards him without turning, but in so
doing beheld Anne standing in waiting.

"A fine speech lost," she said, "though 'twas well enough for the
country, Sir John. 'Tis thrown away, because 'tis not I who am scented
with rose-leaves, but Anne there, whom you must not ogle. Come hither,
sister, and do not hide as if you were ashamed to be looked at."

And she drew her forward, and there Anne stood, and all of them stared at
her poor, plain, blushing face, and the Adonis in cinnamon and crimson
bowed low, as if she had been a duchess, that being his conqueror's way
with gentle or simple, maid, wife, or widow, beauty or homespun
uncomeliness.

It was so with him always; he could never resist the chance of luring to
himself a woman's heart, whether he wanted it or not, and he had a charm,
a strange and wonderful one, it could not be denied. Anne palpitated
indeed as she made her curtsey to him, and wondered if Heaven had ever
before made so fine a gentleman and so beautiful a being.

She went but seldom to this room again, and when she went she stood
always in the background, far more in fear that some one would address
her than that she should meet with neglect. She was used to neglect, and