"Mrs. Vane dines out, my lord," was the man's immediate reply. "The
carriage is at the door now."

"Very well. Mr. Carlyle remains."

At seven o'clock the dinner was announced, and the earl wheeled into the
adjoining room. As he and Mr. Carlyle entered it at one door, some one
else came in by the opposite one. Who--what--was it? Mr. Carlyle looked,
not quite sure whether it was a human being--he almost thought it more
like an angel.

A light, graceful, girlish form; a face of surpassing beauty, beauty
that is rarely seen, save from the imagination of a painter; dark
shining curls falling on her neck and shoulders, smooth as a child's;
fair, delicate arms decorated with pearls, and a flowing dress of costly
white lace. Altogether the vision did indeed look to the lawyer as one
from a fairer world than this.

"My daughter, Mr. Carlyle, the Lady Isabel."

They took their seats at the table, Lord Mount Severn at its head, in
spite of his gout and his footstool. And the young lady and Mr. Carlyle
opposite each other. Mr. Carlyle had not deemed himself a particular
admirer of women's beauty, but the extraordinary loveliness of the young
girl before him nearly took away his senses and his self-possession. Yet
it was not so much the perfect contour or the exquisite features that
struck him, or the rich damask of the delicate cheek, or the luxuriant
falling hair; no, it was the sweet expression of the soft dark eyes.
Never in his life had he seen eyes so pleasing. He could not keep his