dled speck with a bubble dome, to be
represented by so stupendous a name!

She gazed at it without seeing it. Her eyes turned towards it
mechanically because it contained somewhere within its narrow precincts
the man of whom she was thinking, of whom she was always thinking.

It was easy to see that Fay--the Duchess of Colle Alto--was an
Englishwoman, in spite of her historic Italian name.

She had the look of perfect though not robust health, the reflection
over her whole being of a childhood spent much in the open air. She was
twenty-three, but her sweet fair face, with its delicate irregular
features, was immature, childish. It gave no impression of experience,
or thought, or of having met life. She was obviously not of those who
criticise or judge themselves. In how many faces we see the conflict, or
the remains of conflict with a dual nature. Fay, as she was called by
her family, seemed all of a piece with herself. Her unharassed
countenance showed it, especially when, as at this moment, she looked
harassed. Anxiety was evidently a foreign element. It sat ill upon her
smooth face, as if it might slide off at any moment. Fay's violet eyes
were her greatest charm. She looked at you with a deprecating, timid,
limpid gaze, in which no guile existed, any more than steadfastness, any
more than unselfishness, any more than courage.

Fay had come into the world anxious to please. She had never shown any
particular wish to give pleasure. If she had been missed out of her
somewhat oppressed and struggling home when she married, it is probable
that the sense of her absence was tinged by relief.

She had never intended to marry the Duke of Colle Alto. It is difficult
to say why that sedate distinguished personage married her.

Fay's face had a very sweet and endearing promise in it which drew men's
eyes after her. I don't know what it meant, and they did not know
either, but they instinctively lessened the distance between themselves
and it. A very thin string will tow a very heavy body if there is no
resistance, and the pace is slow. The duke looked at Fay, who was at
that moment being taken out for her first season by her grandmother,
Lady Bellairs. Fay tried to please him, as was her wont with all except
men with beards. She liked to have him in attendance. Her violet eyes
lighted up with genuine pleasure when he came to see her.

It is perhaps difficult for the legions of women who do not please
easily, and for the