Roy needs but little introduction. Everybody with the
slightest pretension to experience in London society knows Lady Janet
Roy.

Who has not heard of her old lace and her priceless rubies? Who has not
admired her commanding figure, her beautifully dressed white hair, her
wonderful black eyes, which still preserve their youthful brightness,
after first opening on the world seventy years since? Who has not felt
the charm of her frank, easily flowing talk, her inexhaustible spirits,
her good-humored, gracious sociability of manner? Where is the modern
hermit who is not familiarly acquainted, by hearsay at least, with
the fantastic novelty and humor of her opinions; with her generous
encouragement of rising merit of any sort, in all ranks, high or low;
with her charities, which know no distinction between abroad and at
home; with her large indulgence, which no ingratitude can discourage,
and no servility pervert? Everybody has heard of the popular old
lady--the childless widow of a long-forgotten lord. Everybody knows Lady
Janet Roy.

But who knows the handsome young woman sitting on her right hand,
playing with her luncheon instead of eating it? Nobody really knows her.

She is prettily dressed in gray poplin, trimmed with gray velvet, and
set off by a ribbon of deep red tied in a bow at the throat. She is
nearly as tall as Lady Janet herself, and possesses a grace and beauty
of figure not always seen in women who rise above the medium height.
Judging by a certain innate grandeur in the carriage of her head and in
the expression of her large melancholy gray eyes, believers in blood and
breeding will be apt to guess that this is another noble lady. Alas! she
is nothing but Lady Janet's companion and reader. Her head, crowned with
its lovely light brown hair, bends with a gentle respect when Lady Janet
speaks. Her fine firm hand is easily and incessantly watchful to supply
Lady Janet's slightest wants. The old lady--affectionately familiar
with her--speaks to her as she might speak to an adopted child. But the
gratitude of the beautiful companion has always the same restraint in
its acknowledgment of kindness; the smile of the beautiful companion
has always the same underlying sadness when it responds to Lady Janet's
hearty laugh. Is there something wrong here, under the surface? Is she
suffering in mind, or suffering in body? What is the matter with her?

The matter with her is secret remorse. This delicate and beautif