nty-six," said Margaret.

"And he is thirty-five," added Garda.

"I suppose they both seem great ages to you," observed Margaret,
smiling.

"It's of very little consequence in a man--his age," replied the young
girl. "I confess that I thought you older than twenty-six; but it's not
because you look old, it's because you look as if you did not care
whether people thought you old or not, and generally it's only women who
are really old, you know, over thirty, like mamma and Mrs. Carew, who
have that expression--don't you think so? And I fancy you don't care
much about dress, either," she went on. "Everything you wear is very
beautiful; still, I don't believe you care about it. Yet you would carry
it off well, any amount of it, you are so tall."

"I think you are as tall as I am," said Margaret, amused by these
unconventional utterances.

"Come and see," replied Garda, suddenly. She took Margaret's hand and
rose.

"What is it we are to do?" inquired Margaret, obeying the motion without
comprehending its object.

"Come," repeated Garda.

They passed into the back drawing-room, and Garda led the way towards a
large mirror.

"But we do not wish to survey ourselves in the presence of all this
company," said Margaret, pausing.

"Yes, we do. They will not notice us, they are talking; it's about our
height, you know," answered the girl. She held Margaret's hand tightly,
and drew her onward until they both stood together before the long
glass.

Two images gazed back at them. One was that of a young girl with bright
brown hair curling low down over wonderful dark eyes. A white rose was
placed, in the Spanish fashion, on one side above the little ear. This
image in the mirror had a soft warm color in its cheeks, and a deeper
one still on its slightly parted lips; these lips were very lovely in
outline, with short, full, upward-arching curves and a little downward
droop at the corners. The rich beauty of the face, and indeed of the
whole figure, was held somewhat aloof from indiscriminate appropriation,
by the indifference which accompanied it. It was not the indifference of
experience, there was no weariness in it, no knowledge of life; it was
the fresh indifference rather of inexperience, like the indifference of
a child. It seemed, too, as if it would always be there, as if that face
would never grow eager, no matter how much expansion of knowledge the
years might bring to it; very possibly, almost certainly, this b