of other people's fancies, though he has plenty of his own,
Heaven knows! Ah, there he comes, thank Heaven! For once he has done
what I wished--dear boy!"

Miss Vane's hard countenance softened as she said the words. She sank
down into her chair again, crossed her hands once more upon her knees,
and assumed the attitude of impenetrable rigidity intended to impress
the observer with a sense of her indifference to all mankind. But the
new-comer, who entered from the terrace at that moment, was too well
used to Miss Vane's ways and manners to be much impressed.

"Good morning, aunt Leo. I have obeyed your orders, you see," he said,
as he bent down and touched her forehead lightly with his lips.

He was a young man, not more than one or two and twenty, but he had
already lost much of the freshness and youthfulness of his years. He was
of middle height, rather slenderly built, well dressed, well brushed,
with the air of high-bred distinction which is never attained save by
those to the manner born. His face was singularly handsome, strong, yet
refined, with sharply-cut features, dark eyes and hair, a heavy black
moustache, and a grave, almost melancholy expression--altogether a
striking face, not one easily to be forgotten or overlooked. As he
seated himself quietly at the breakfast-table, and replied to some query
of his aunt's respecting the hour of his arrival, it occurred to Miss
Vane that he was looking remarkably tired and unwell. The line of his
cheek, always somewhat sharp, seemed to have fallen in, there were dark
shadows beneath his eyes, and his olive complexion had assumed the
slightly livid tints which sometimes mark ill-health. In spite of her
preoccupation with other matters, Miss Vane could not repress a comment
on his appearance.

"What have you been doing with yourself, Hubert? You look positively
ghastly!"

"Do I!" said Hubert, glancing up with a ready smile. "I shouldn't
wonder. I was up all last night with some fellows that I know--we made a
night of it, aunt Leo--and I have naturally a headache this morning."

"You deserve it then. Surely you might have chosen a more fitting time
for a carouse!"

It seemed to her, curiously enough, that he gave a little shiver and
drew in his lips beneath his dark moustache. But he answered with his
usual indifference of manner.

"It was hardly a carouse. I can't undertake to make a recluse of myself,
my dear aunt, in spite of the family troubles."

"Hubert,