icular morning she went carefully
through the menu, and corrected it with her own hand.

A pair of post-horses brought Lady Kirkbank and her maid from Windermere
station, in time for afternoon tea, and the friends who had only met
twice within the last forty years, embraced each other on the threshold
of Lady Maulevrier's morning-room.

'My dearest Di,' cried Lady Kirkbank, 'what a delight to see you again
after such ages; and what a too lovely spot you have chosen for your
retreat from the world, the flesh, and the devil. If I could be a
recluse anywhere, it would be amongst just such delicious surroundings.'

Without, twilight shades were gathering; within, there was only the
light of a fire and a shaded lamp upon the tea table; there was just
light enough for the two women to see each other's faces, and the change
which time had wrought there.

Never did womanhood in advanced years offer a more striking contrast
than that presented by the woman of fashion and the recluse. Lady
Maulevrier was almost as handsome in the winter of her days as she had
been when life was in its spring. The tall, slim figure, erect as a
dart, the delicately chiselled features and alabaster complexion, the
soft silvery hair, the perfect hand, whiter and more transparent than
the hand of girlhood, the stately movements and bearing, all combined to
make Lady Maulevrier a queen among woman. Her brocade gown of a deep
shade of red, with a border of dark sable on cuffs and collar, suggested
a portrait by Velasquez. She wore no ornaments except the fine old
Brazilian diamonds which flashed and sparkled upon her slender fingers.

If Lady Maulevrier looked like a picture in the Escurial, Lady Kirkbank
resembled a caricature in _La Vie Parisienne_. Everything she wore was
in the very latest fashion of the Parisian _demi-monde_, that
exaggerated elegance of a fashion plate which only the most exquisite of
women could redeem from vulgarity. Plush, brocade, peacock's feathers,
golden bangles, mousquetaire gloves, a bonnet of purple plumage set off
by ornaments of filagree gold, an infantine little muff of lace and wild
flowers, buttercups and daisies; and hair, eyebrows and complexion as
artificial as the flowers on the muff.

All that art could do to obliterate the traces of age had been done for
Georgina Kirkbank. But seventy years are not to be obliterated easily,
and the crow's feet showed through the bloom de Ninon, and the eyes
under the pai