remembered what Lady Earle had said of her son. She knew that
both his mother and hers wished that she should be Ronald's wife.

"I beg your pardon," he said hastily, "I thought Lady Earle was
here."

"She is in the library," said Valentine, with a smile that
dazzled him.

He bowed and withdrew. This, then, was Valentine Charteris, the
fine lady whose coming he had dreaded. She was very beautiful--
he had never seen a face like hers.

No thought of love, or of comparing this magnificent woman with
simple, pretty Dora, ever entered his mind. But Ronald was a
true artist, and one of no mean skill. He thought of that pure
Grecian face as he would have thought of a beautiful picture or
an exquisite statue. He never thought of the loving, sensitive
woman's heart hidden under it.

It was not difficult when dinner was over to open the grand piano
for Valentine, to fetch her music, and listen while she talked of
operas he had never heard. It was pleasant to watch her as she
sat in the evening gloaming, her superb beauty enhanced by the
delicate evening dress of fine white lace; the shapely shoulders
were polished and white, the exquisite arms rounded and clasped
by a bracelet of pearls. She wore a rose in the bodice of her
dress, and, as Ronald bent over the music she was showing him the
sweet, subtle perfume came to him like a message from Dora.