John Kynaston! The reflection did not influence her in the least, only
she said to herself also, "If he is like his photograph, I should be sure
to get on with him."

She was an odd mixture, this Vera. Ambitious, worldly-wise, mercenary
even, if you will; conscious of her own beauty, and determined to exact
its full value; and yet she was tender and affectionate, full of poetry
and refinement, honest and true as her own fanciful name.

The secret of these strange contradictions is simply this. Vera has never
loved. No one spark of divine fire has ever touched her soul or warmed
the latent energies of her being. She has lived in the thick of the
world, but love has passed her scatheless. Her mind, her intellect, her
brain, are all alive, and sharpened acutely; her heart slumbers still.
Happier for her, perhaps, had it never awakened.

She leant upon the stone parapet, supporting her chin upon her hand,
dreaming her dreams. Her hat lay by her side, her long dark dress fell in
straight heavy folds to her feet. The yellow leaves fluttered about her,
the peacocks strutted up and down, the gardeners in the distance were
sweeping up the dead leaves on the lawns, but Vera stirred not; one
motionless, beautiful figure giving grace, and life, and harmony to the
deserted scene.

* * * * *

Some one was passing along among the upper rooms of the house, followed
by Mrs. Eccles, panting and exhausted.

"I am sure, Sir John, I am quite ashamed that you should see the place so