to the received
ways of thought to which ordinary women are confined, but rather a
complete ignorance of them. Adela felt herself startled, but never
shocked, even when the originality went most counter to her own
prejudices; it was as though she had drunk a draught of most unexpected
flavour, the effect of which was to set her nerves delightfully
trembling, and make her long to taste it again. It was not an
occasional effect, the result of an effort on Stella's part to surprise
or charm; the commonest words had novel meanings when uttered in her
voice; a profound sincerity seemed to inspire every lightest question
or remark. Her presence was agitating; she had but to enter the room and
sit in silence, and Adela forthwith was raised from the depression of
her broodings to a vividness of being, an imaginative energy, such as
she had never known. Adela doubted for some time whether Stella regarded
her with affection; the little demonstrations in which women are wont to
indulge were incompatible with that grave dreaminess, and Stella seemed
to avoid even the common phrases of friendship. But one day, when Adela
had not been well enough to rise, and as she lay on the borderland of
sleeping and waking, she half dreamt, half knew, that a face bent over
her, and that lips were pressed against her own; and such a thrill
struck through her that, though now fully conscious, she had not power
to stir, but lay as in the moment of some rapturous death. For when the
presence entered into her dream, when the warmth melted upon her lips,
she imagined it the kiss which might once have come to her but now was
lost for ever. It was pain to open her eyes, but when she did so, and
met Stella's silent gaze, she knew that love was offered her, a love of
which it was needless to speak.

Mrs. Waltham was rather afraid of Stella; privately she doubted whether
the poor thing was altogether in her perfect mind. When the visitor
came the mother generally found occupation or amusement elsewhere,
conversation with Stella was so extremely difficult. Mr. Westlake was
also at Exmouth, but much engaged in literary work. There was, too, an
artist and his family, with whom the Westlakes were acquainted, their
name Boscobel. Mrs. Boscobel was a woman of the world, five-and-thirty,
charming, intelligent; she read little, but was full of interest in
literary and artistic matters, and talked as only a woman can who
has long associated with men of brains. To he