cross the room. Emily wore the black evening dress
which gave such opportunities to her square white shoulders and firm
column of throat; the country air and sun had deepened the colour on her
cheek, and the light of the nearest lamp fell kindly on the big twist of
her nut-brown hair, and burnished it. She looked soft and warm, and so
generously interested in her pupil's progress that she was rather sweet.

Lord Walderhurst simply looked at her. He was a man of but few words.
Women who were sprightly found him somewhat unresponsive. In fact, he
was aware that a man in his position need not exert himself. The women
themselves would talk. They wanted to talk because they wanted him to
hear them.

Mrs. Ralph talked.

"She is the most primeval person I know. She accepts her fate without a
trace of resentment; she simply accepts it."

"What is her fate?" asked Lord Walderhurst, still gazing in his
unbiassed manner through his monocle, and not turning his head as he
spoke.

"It is her fate to be a woman who is perfectly well born, and who is as
penniless as a charwoman, and works like one. She is at the beck and
call of any one who will give her an odd job to earn a meal with. That
is one of the new ways women have found of making a living."

"Good skin," remarked Lord Walderhurst, irrelevantly. "Good hair--quite
a lot."

"She has some of the nicest blood in England in her veins, and she
engaged my last cook for me," said Mrs. Ralph.

"Hope she was a good cook."

"Very. Emily Fox-Seton has a faculty of finding decent people. I believe
it is because she is so decent herself"--with a little laugh.

"Looks quite decent," commented Walderhurst. The knitting was getting on
famously.

"It was odd you should see Sir Bruce Norman that day," Agatha Slade was
saying. "It must have been just before he was called away to India."

"It was. He sailed the next day. I happen to know, because some friends
of mine met me only a few yards from your picture and began to talk
about him. I had not known before that he was so rich. I had not heard
about his collieries in Lancashire. Oh!"--opening her big eyes in
heart-felt yearning,--"how I wish I owned a colliery! It must be so
_nice_ to be rich!"

"I never was rich," answered Lady Agatha, with a bitter little sigh. "I
know it is hideous to be poor."

"_I_ never was rich," said Emily, "and I never shall be. You"--a little
shyly--"are so different."

Lady Agatha flushed delicate