It was such a moment for Elise Durwent as she stood in the doorway, the
overhanging arc touching her hair and shoulders with the high lights of
some master's painting. Conversation ceased, and in every face there
was the universal homage paid to beauty, even though it be tendered
grudgingly.

She was dressed in a gown of deep blue, that colour which renders its
ageless tribute to the fair women of the world, and from her shoulders
there hung a black net that subdued the colour of the gown and left the
graceful suggestion of a cape.

'I am so sorry, mother,' she said. 'I was reading, and quite forgot
the time.'

Austin Selwyn stroked the back of his head, then thrust both hands into
his pockets. There was something in the girl's appearance and the
contralto timbre of her voice that left him with the odd sensation that
she was out of place in the room--that her real sphere was in the
expanse of unbridled nature. He could see her wealth of copper-hued
hair blown by the western wind; he could picture her joining in
Spring's minuet of swaying rose-bushes.

'My daughter Elise--Mr. Austin Selwyn.'

He bowed as the words penetrated his thoughts; then, glancing up, he
felt a sudden contraction of disappointment.

The girl's eyes had narrowed, and were no longer sparkling, but
steady--almost to the point of dullness; her lower lip was full, and
too scarlet for the upper one, which chided its sister for the wanton