reappeared at the breakfast-table they looked as fresh as their muslin dresses, and as far from tears as the day was from rain. And now, what am I to say of Miss Anstruther’s personal appearance? She is certainly very different from what I imagined—altogether different. I will acknowledge so far; and yet I don’t know if I am agreeably surprised in her or not. She is tall and slight, though not at all thin, with a lithe figure which reminds me of a leopard or some such animal; and every time she moves I expect to see her take a waving serpentine leap which shall land her noiselessly on the opposite side of the room; which peculiarity brings so forcibly to my mind her nickname of ‘Lionne’ that I have very nearly called her by it more than once to-day. Her complexion is pale and sallow (Janie calls it ‘creamy’—so I suppose that is the right name for it), and her eyes, which are enormous (much too big, in my opinion; I dislike startling eyes in animals or women), are black, and very variable in their expression. Her nose is straight, and rather sharp; and she has an absurdly short upper lip, with a deep channel in the centre of it—in fact, scarcely any upper lip at all. But she has a pretty set of teeth (I record this fact to show that I am not permitting myself to be in the least swayed by prejudice), and apparently a large quantity of dark hair—at least Janie tells me that when unbound it reaches to her knees. Still, although doubtless she can boast of some good features, to call such a woman beautiful is absurd; and one has only to see her stand side by side with my rosebud wife to perceive the worse points which she possesses. It brings out at once, as I made Janie laugh by observing, all the yellow that is in her. She is not so plain, perhaps, as I expected; but ‘beautiful’ is the last epithet I should apply to Margaret Anstruther. No woman who is not fair can possibly be pretty; and how any man can _prefer_ a dark face is to me inexplicable.