ahlias flamed and asters broke into waves of purple and
snow. The ruddy light of the autumn afternoon gave a sheen to the waves
of her hair and brought out the exceeding purity of her Greek outlines.

Mrs. George knew who Lucinda was--a cousin of the second generation,
and, in spite of her thirty-five years, the acknowledged beauty of the
whole Penhallow connection.

She was one of those rare women who keep their loveliness unmarred by
the passage of years. She had ripened and matured, but she had not
grown old. The older Penhallows were still inclined, from sheer force of
habit, to look upon her as a girl, and the younger Penhallows hailed her
as one of themselves. Yet Lucinda never aped girlishness; good taste and
a strong sense of humour preserved her amid many temptations thereto.
She was simply a beautiful, fully developed woman, with whom Time had
declared a truce, young with a mellow youth which had nothing to do with
years.

Mrs. George liked and admired Lucinda. Now, when Mrs. George liked and
admired any person, it was a matter of necessity with her to impart her
opinions to the most convenient confidant. In this case it was Romney
Penhallow to whom Mrs. George remarked sweetly:

"Really, don't you think our Lucinda is looking remarkably well this
fall?"

It seemed a very harmless, inane, well-meant question. Poor Mrs. George
might well be excused for feeling bewildered over the effect. Romney
gathered his long legs together, stood up, and swept the unfortunate
speaker a crushing Penhallow bow of state.

"Far be it from me to disagree with the opinion of a lady--especially
when it concerns another lady," he said, as he left the blue room.

Overcome by the mordant satire in his tone, Mrs. George glanced
speechlessly at Lucinda. Behold, Lucinda had squarely turned her back on
the party and was gazing out into the garden, with a very decided flush
on the snowy curves of her neck and cheek. Then Mrs. George looked at
her sisters-in-law. They were regarding her with the tolerant amusement
they might bestow on a blundering child. Mrs. George experienced that
subtle prescience whereby it is given us to know that we have put our
foot in it. She felt herself turning an uncomfortable brick-red. What
Penhallow skeleton had she unwittingly jangled? Why, oh, why, was it
such an evident breach of the proprieties to praise Lucinda?

Mrs. George was devoutly thankful that a summons to the tea-table
rescued her from h