into the boudoir. The steward had knocked at that door, had disappeared
through it, and had not appeared again. How much longer was Lady
Lydiard's visitor to be left unnoticed in Lady Lydiard's house?

As the question passed through his mind the boudoir door opened. For
once in his life, Alfred Hardyman's composure deserted him. He started
to his feet, like an ordinary mortal taken completely by surprise.

Instead of Mr. Moody, instead of Lady Lydiard, there appeared in the
open doorway a young woman in a state of embarrassment, who actually
quickened the beat of Mr. Hardyman's heart the moment he set eyes on
her. Was the person who produced this amazing impression at first sight
a person of importance? Nothing of the sort. She was only "Isabel"
surnamed "Miller." Even her name had nothing in it. Only "Isabel
Miller!"

Had she any pretensions to distinction in virtue of her personal
appearance?

It is not easy to answer the question. The women (let us put the
worst judges first) had long since discovered that she wanted that
indispensable elegance of figure which is derived from slimness of
waist and length of limb. The men (who were better acquainted with the
subject) looked at her figure from their point of view; and, finding it
essentially embraceable, asked for nothing more. It might have been her
bright complexion or it might have been the bold luster of her eyes (as
the women considered it), that dazzled the lords of creation generally,
and made them all alike incompetent to discover her faults. Still,
she had compensating attractions which no severity of criticism could
dispute. Her smile, beginning at her lips, flowed brightly and instantly