e lamplight shone out so brightly through the old-fashioned
embroidered lace curtains that she could see his profile. Hers too was
clearly outlined as she lifted her chin anxiously.

The brother and sister were both good to look at, in ways so different
that the two made a striking contrast. Aline knew that in appearance
they were a romantic pair of travelling companions. Every one stared at
them when they were together, for he was very tall and dark, more like
an Italian or a Spaniard than an Englishman, and she was gracefully
slender and fair, dressing with a subtle appreciation of herself and all
her points. Aline West's and Basil Norman's photographs, taken together
or apart, for newspapers and magazines, were extremely effective, and
were considered by publishers to help the sale of their books. Norman
might have sat for Titian's Portrait of a Gentleman: and there were
those who thought Mrs. West not unlike Lady Hamilton. Since the first
expression of this opinion in print, she had changed the fashion of her
hair, and at fancy-dress balls, of which she was fond, she generally
appeared as the beautiful Emma. Certainly the cast of her features and
the cutting of her lips faintly recalled those of Romney's ideal; but
Mrs. West's pretty pale face had only two expressions: the one when she
smiled--always the same delicate curving of the lips which lit no beam
in the deep-set forget-me-not eyes; the one when she was grave and
wistfully intellectual. She had a beautiful round white throat which she
never hid with a high collar. Her hair was of that sun-in-a-mist gold
that eventually fades almost imperceptibly into gray--if left to itself.
But in Aline's case it was improbable that it would be left to itself.
Every morning when dressing she examined it anxiously, even fearfully,
to see whether it was becoming thinner or losing its misty glints of
gold. Yet she knew that her fears were likely to advance the day she
dreaded, and tried to shut them out of her mind.

"Why do you laugh?" she inquired almost irritably, for she was secretly
afraid always of missing something that was seen by others to be
amusing. She talked constantly of a sense of humour, pitying those not
blessed with it, but there were moments when she wondered bleakly if she
had it herself. "Have I said anything funny?"

"Only you seem so sure that the dedication will be a panacea for every
wound."

"So it will be for Mrs. Keeling."

"I thought you had t