in shade with her swiftly varying moods. Her lower lip was full and
red, the upper one firm and repressed with the dull crimson of a fading
rose-petal. Her shapely arms and legs were restless, seemingly
impatient to break into some quickly moving dance. She was
extraordinarily alive. Vitality flashed from her with every gesture,
and her mind, a thing of caprice and whim, knew no boundaries but those
of imagination itself.

Puzzled and entirely unable to understand anything so instinctive, Lady
Durwent engaged a governess who was personally recommended by Lady
Chisworth, whose friend the Countess of Oxeter had told her that the
three daughters of the Duchess of Dulworth had all been entrusted to
her care.

In spite of this almost unexampled set of references, the governess was
completely unable to cope with Elise Durwent. She taught her (among
other things) decorum and French. Her pupil was openly irreverent
about the first; and when the governess, after the time-honoured
method, produced an endless vista of exceptions to the rule in French
grammar, the girl balked. She was willing to compromise on _Avoir_,
but mutinied outright at the ramifications of _Être_.

Seeing that the child was making poor progress, and as it was out of
the question to dismiss a governess who had been entrusted with the
three daughters of the Duchess of Dulworth, Lady Durwent sent for
reinforcement in the person of the organist of their church, and bade
him teach Elise the art of the piano. With the dull lack of vision
belonging to men of his type, he failed to recognise the spirit of
music lying in her breast, merely waiting the call to spring into life.
He knew that her home was one where music was unheard, and his method