Eight years had changed Florence very little in outward appearance. She was still pale, slender, graceful--languid in manner, slow in speech, and given to the reading of French novels. But there were dark shades beneath her velvety brown eyes, as if she suffered from ill-health. She had taken to lying on a sofa a great deal; she did not visit much, and she seldom allowed any festivity at the Hall. She remained in her boudoir for the greater part of the day, with the rose-colored blinds down, and the doors carefully closed and curtained to exclude any sound of the outer world; and while she was up-stairs the General and his niece Enid and the boy had the house to themselves, and enjoyed their liberty extremely. In the afternoon Mrs. Vane would be found in her drawing-room, ready for visitors; but she generally returned to her boudoir for a rest before dinner, and steadily see her face against late hours in the evening. Nobody knew what was the matter with her; some people spoke vaguely of her "nerves," of the extreme delicacy and sensitiveness of her organisation--some said that Beechfield did not suit her, and others whispered that she had never been "quite right" since her baby was born. At any rate, she was a semi-invalid; and she did not seem to know what was the matter with her any more than did other people. She sat in her luxurious lounging-chair, or lay on the softest of sofas, day after day without complaint, always pale, silent, graceful--an habitual smile, sweet and weary, upon her pinched lips, but no smile in her eyes, where a fire sometimes glowed which seemed to be burning her very life away. One balmy September afternoon she had established herself rather earlier than usual in the drawing-room. A bright little fire burned in the polished steel grate--for Florence was always chilly--but the windows were open; a faint breeze from the terrace swept into the room and moved the lace curtains gently to and fro. The blinds were half drawn down, so that the room was not very light; the shadowed perfumed atmosphere was grateful after the brightness of the autumn afternoon. Florence Vane sat in a low arm-chair near the fire. She had a small table beside her, on which stood her dainty work-basket, half full of colored silks, her embroidery patterns, a novel, a gold vinaigrette, and a French fan. She had cushions at her back, a footstool for her feet, a soft white shawl on her shoulders. It was very plain that she liked to make herself comfortable. She wore a gown of pale blue silk embroidered in silver--a most artistic garment, which suited her to perfection, and which was as soft and luxurious as the rest of her surroundings. The white cat which lay curled up on the rug at her feet could not have looked more at her ease.