ped up to her and took her offered
hand, "I am glad that you have come that I may congratulate you. Better
late than never, eh, Harry?"

How was he to answer her when she spoke to him in this strain? "I hope
it is not too late," he said, hardly knowing what the words were which
were coming from his mouth.

"Nay, that is for you to say. I can do it heartily, Harry, if you mean
that. And why not? Why should I not wish you happy? I have always liked
you--have always wished for your happiness. You believe that I am
sincere when I congratulate you, do you not?"

"Oh yes, you are always sincere."

"I have always been so to you. As to any sincerity beyond that, we need
say nothing now. I have always been your good friend--to the best of my
ability. Ah! Harry, you do not know how much I have thought of your
welfare--how much I do think of it. But never mind that. Tell me
something now of this Florence Burton of yours. Is she tall?" I believe
that Lady Ongar, when she asked this question, knew well that Florence
was short of stature.

"No, she is not tall," said Harry.

"What--a little beauty? Upon the whole, I think I agree with your taste.
The most lovely women that I have ever seen have been small, bright, and
perfect in their proportions. It is very rare that a tall woman has a
perfect figure." Julie's own figure was quite perfect. "Do you remember
Constance Vane? Nothing ever exceeded her beauty." Now Constance
Vane--she, at least, who had in those days been Constance Vane, but who
now was the stout mother of two or three children--had been a waxen doll
of a girl, whom Harry had known, but had neither liked nor admired. But
she was highly bred, and belonged to the cream of English fashion; she
had possessed a complexion as pure in its tints as are the interior
leaves of a blush rose, and she had never had a thought in her head, and
hardly ever a word on her lips. She and Florence Burton were as poles
asunder in their differences. Harry felt this at once, and had an
indistinct notion that Lady Ongar was as well aware of the fact as was
he himself. "She is not a bit like Constance Vane," he said.

"Then what is she like? If she is more beautiful than what Miss Vane
used to be, she must be lovely indeed."

"She has no pretensions of that kind," said Harry, almost sulkily.

"I have heard that she was so very beautiful!" Lady Ongar had never
heard a word about Florence's beauty--not a word. She knew nothing
personally