in the
polished steel grate--for Florence was always chilly--but the windows
were open; a faint breeze from the terrace swept into the room and moved
the lace curtains gently to and fro. The blinds were half drawn down, so
that the room was not very light; the shadowed perfumed atmosphere was
grateful after the brightness of the autumn afternoon.

Florence Vane sat in a low arm-chair near the fire. She had a small
table beside her, on which stood her dainty work-basket, half full of
colored silks, her embroidery patterns, a novel, a gold vinaigrette, and
a French fan. She had cushions at her back, a footstool for her feet, a
soft white shawl on her shoulders. It was very plain that she liked to
make herself comfortable. She wore a gown of pale blue silk embroidered
in silver--a most artistic garment, which suited her to perfection, and
which was as soft and luxurious as the rest of her surroundings. The
white cat which lay curled up on the rug at her feet could not have
looked more at her ease.

In a chair opposite to her sat a man of rather more than thirty, who
looked thirty-five or even forty when the little light from the
curtained windows fell upon his dark face, and showed the gray threads
that were beginning to appear in his moustache. If he had been a woman,
he would have sat with his back to the window, as Florence was doing
now. But Hubert Lepel was not at all the man to think about his
appearance, or to regret the fact, if he did think about it, that he
looked more than his age. He had found it rather an advantage to him
during the last few years.

Florence had not seen him for some time, and she commented silently and
acutely on the change in his appearance. He had a subtle face, she
thought--keen, stern, sardonic--too deeply furrowed for a man of his
years, too haggard to be exactly handsome, but certainly very
interesting, especially to the mind of a woman who had seen little of
the world. This was as it should be. She smiled to herself; she was a
born plotter, and she had a scheme for Hubert's benefit now. It was only
fair that he should partake of the good fortune that had fallen to her
lot.

"It was kind of you to come," she was saying languidly, "for I know that
you don't care for Beechfield."

"No," he said; "I prefer London on the whole."

"And foreign travel. It is quite extraordinary to think how little you
have been in England for the last few years! I have not seen you
for--how long, Hube