only the most frigid bows were interchanged.

For, in quite early times, when the Australian heiress, as she was
improperly styled, was taking London more or less by storm, she
chanced to overhear a brief colloquy not intended for her ears.

"Who is that glorious woman that came in with the duchess? I don't see
her just now, but she had a red frock on, with black lace over it--
dark hair and diamond stars--not half as bright and fine as her eyes,
by Jove!"

"It must be Miss Pennycuick--an Australian lady. She is with the
duchess's party."

"Oh, is that Miss Pennycuick? Well, now I can believe what I've heard
of her being so charming. She carries it in her face."

"She WAS charming--until she came into her money. That has quite
spoilt her."

It was Claud Dalzell who said it, and Deb heard him say it. She moved
off out of the press that had brought her within reach of his cold
voice--not to be mistaken by her for any other voice--and she vowed
through clenched teeth that never again would she come within that
distance of him, if she could help it.

The years as they passed only strengthened this determination. Each
proud inclination of the head, each ceremonious lift of the hat, added
bitterness to their mutual resentment--to his feeling that she was
spoiled by her money, and to her feeling that he wilfully misjudged