"I heard nothing about it, sir; but I'd better ask. Will you come in,
sir?"

Lady Seveley's house was a house of scent and soft carpets. The
staircase was covered with pink silk, and in the recess on the first
landing, or rather where the stairs paused, there was an aviary in
which either hawks screeched or owls blinked; generally there was a
magpie there, and the quaint bird now hopped to Frank's finger,
casting a thievish look on his rings. The drawing-room was full of
flowers. There was a grand piano, dark and bright; the skins of tigers
Lord Seveley had shot carpeted the floor, and on their heads, Helen
rested her feet, showing her plump legs to her visitors. On the walls
there were indifferent water-colours, there were gold screens, the
cabinets were full of china, there were three-volume novels on the
tea-table--it was the typical rich widow's house, a house where young
men lingered. Frank stood examining a portrait on china of Lady
Seveley, it was happily hung with blue ribbon from the top of the
mirror. It represented a woman inclined to stoutness, about three and
thirty. The chestnut hair was piled and curled with strange art about
the head. Above the face there was a mask, roses wreathed, and a
swallow carrying a love missive, butterflies and arrows everywhere,
and below the face there was a skull profusely wreathed and almost
hidden in roses. This portrait would have stirred the imagination of
many young men, but Frank thought nothing of it--the theatrical
display displeased him, it seemed to him even a little foolish. He
crossed over to the flowers.

"Lady Seveley will be down in a moment, sir," said the maid. A few
minutes after the door opened.