gleams from armour of bronze. The hues of rare porcelain, of the rich
inlays of Oriental or Renaissance cabinets, mingled with the hues of the
pictures, the tapestry, the Persian rugs about the polished floor to
fill the hall with a rich glow of colour.

But of all the beautiful and precious things which the sun-rays
warmed to a clearer beauty, the face of the girl who sat writing at
a table in front of the long windows, which opened on to the
centuries-old turf of the broad terrace, was the most beautiful and
the most precious.

It was a delicate, almost frail, beauty. Her skin was clear with the
transparent lustre of old porcelain, and her pale cheeks were only
tinted with the pink of the faintest roses. Her straight nose was
delicately cut, her rounded chin admirably moulded. A lover of
beauty would have been at a loss whether more to admire her clear,
germander eyes, so melting and so adorable, or the sensitive mouth,
with its rather full lips, inviting all the kisses. But assuredly he
would have been grieved by the perpetual air of sadness which rested
on the beautiful face--the wistful melancholy of the Slav, deepened
by something of personal misfortune and suffering.

Her face was framed by a mass of soft fair hair, shot with strands
of gold where the sunlight fell on it; and little curls, rebellious
to the comb, strayed over her white forehead, tiny feathers of gold.

She was addressing envelopes, and a long list of names lay on her
left hand. When she had addressed an envelope, she slipped into it a
wedding-card. On each was printed: