d
her without wanting to have a second look. When she went into society,
which was seldom, many questions were invariably asked about her. There
might be more beautiful women present; there might be women who were
noteworthy because of some book they had written or some picture they
had painted, but they did not excite the interest which Olive
Castlemaine excited. It was not because of any exceeding beauty of form
or face. Not that nature had dealt niggardly towards her in this
direction--quite the contrary; she had a finely formed face, and there
were those who raved about the purity of her complexion and the glory
of her "nut-brown hair." She was tall, and well formed too, and carried
herself with grace. But it was not beauty of face and form that singled
her out from the crowd. What it was I will not try and tell. I should
only fail if I attempted. Beauty rightly understood is a spiritual
thing, and is not dependent on contour of features or a brilliant
complexion--it is in truth indefinable. A doll may be pretty, but it is
not beautiful. Beauty is suggested rather than portrayed--it is
something which lies behind the material. I have on rare occasions seen
plain women who are beautiful. What has made them so I cannot tell,
except that there has been what I call, for want of a better term, a
spiritual essence, which has ennobled and glorified everything.

Looking at Olive Castlemaine's photograph, you would have said, "That is
a fine, striking-looking girl." If you met her and talked with her, you
would not use those words. Perhaps you would not try to describe her at
all. You would be impressed by a sense of nobility, of spirituality, and
you would be surprised if you heard of her doing anything mean and
small. Indeed you would not believe it. Perhaps that was why strangers
generally asked questions about her. For beauty which suggests truth,
loveliness of mind, purity of soul, is of the rarest kind. And yet this
beauty is possible to all.

"I say, Olive."

"Yes, father."

"Nearly finished?"

"Oh, please forgive me. I ought to be ashamed of myself, but it is an
interesting letter."

"Who is it from?"

"From Bridget Osborne. We were together in Germany, you know."

"Bridget Osborne? Where does she live?"

"In Devonshire--Taviton Grange. Don't you remember?"

"Oh yes," said John Castlemaine with a smile. Then he added, "What a
coincidence!"

"What is a coincidence?"

"Oh, my letter is from a man in Ta