e cabinets, mingled with the hues of
the pictures, the tapestry, the Persian rugs about the polished floor
to fill the hall with a rich glow of colour.

But of all the beautiful and precious things which the sun-rays warmed
to a clearer beauty, the face of the girl who sat writing at a table in
front of the long windows, which opened on to the centuries-old turf of
the broad terrace, was the most beautiful and the most precious.

It was a delicate, almost frail, beauty. Her skin was clear with the
transparent lustre of old porcelain, and her pale cheeks were only
tinted with the pink of the faintest roses. Her straight nose was
delicately cut, her rounded chin admirably moulded. A lover of beauty
would have been at a loss whether more to admire her clear, germander
eyes, so melting and so adorable, or the sensitive mouth, with its
rather full lips, inviting all the kisses. But assuredly he would have
been grieved by the perpetual air of sadness which rested on the
beautiful face--the wistful melancholy of the Slav, deepened by
something of personal misfortune and suffering.

Her face was framed by a mass of soft fair hair, shot with strands of
gold where the sunlight fell on it; and little curls, rebellious to the
comb, strayed over her white forehead, tiny feathers of gold.

She was addressing envelopes, and a long list of names lay on her left
hand. When she had addressed an envelope, she slipped into it a
wedding-card. On each was printed:

"M. Gournay-Martin has the honour to inform
you of the marriage of his daughter
Germaine to the Duke of Charmerace."

She wrote steadily on, adding envelope after envelope to the pile ready
for the post, which rose in front of her. But now and again, when the
flushed and laughing girls who were playing lawn-tennis on the terrace,
raised their voices higher than usual as they called the score, and
distracted her attention from her work, her gaze strayed through the
open window and lingered on them wistfully; and as her eyes came back
to her task she sighed with so faint a wistfulness that she hardly knew
she sighed. Then a voice from the terrace cried, "Sonia! Sonia!"

"Yes. Mlle. Germaine?" answered the writing girl.

"Tea! Order tea, will you?" cried the voice, a petulant voice, rather
harsh to the ear.

"Very well, Mlle. Germaine," said Sonia; and having finished addressing
the envelope under her pen, she laid it on the pile ready to be posted,
and, cros