erfection of
simplicity, of freshness, of maiden purity, enhanced by the touch of
art. As she surveyed herself in the pier-glass, and noted the refined
lines of the morning-gown which draped but did not conceal the more
exquisite lines of her figure, and adjusted a rose in her bosom, she did
not feel like a Puritan, and, although she may not have noted the fact,
she did not look like one. It was not a look of vanity that she threw
into the mirror, or of special self-consciousness; in her toilet she
had obeyed only her instinct (that infallible guide in a woman of
refinement), and if she was conscious of any emotion, it was of the
stirring within her of the deepest womanly nature.

In fact, she was restless. She flung herself into an easy-chair before
the fire, and took up a novel. It was a novel with a religious problem.
In vain she tried to be interested in it. At home she would have
absorbed it eagerly; they would have discussed it; the doubts and
suggestions in it would have assumed the deepest personal importance. It
might have made an era in her thoughtful country life. Here it did not
so appeal to her; it seemed unreal and shadowy in a life that had so
much more of action than of reflection in it. It was a life fascinating
and exciting, and profoundly unsatisfactory. Yet, after all, it was more
really life than that placid vegetation in the country. She felt that in
the whirl of only a few days of it--operas, receptions, teas, readings,
dances, dinners, where everybody sparkled with a bewildering brilliancy,
and yet from which one brought away nothing but a sense of strain; such
gallantry, such compliments, such an easy tossing about of every topic
under heaven; such an air of knowing everything, and not caring about
anything very much; so much mutual admiration and personal satisfaction!
She liked it, and perhaps was restless because she liked it. To be
admired, to be deferred to--was there any harm in that? Only, if one
suffers admiration today, it becomes a necessity tomorrow. She began to
feel the influence of that life which will not let one stand still for
a moment. If it is not the opera, it is a charity; if it is not a lover,
it is some endowed cot in a hospital. There must be something going on
every day, every hour.

Yes, she was restless, and could not read. She thought of Mr. Henderson.
He had called formally. She had seen him, here and there, again and
again. He had sought her out in all companies; h