"Rosalind is lovelier than ever, Lady Darcy, if that is possible!" she said aloud, and her companion's face brightened with pleasure. "Oh, do you think so?" she cried eagerly. "I am so glad to hear it, for this growing stage is so trying. I was afraid she might outgrow her strength and lose her complexion, but so far I don't think it has suffered. I am very careful of her diet, and my maid understands all the new skin treatments. So much depends on a girl's complexion. I notice your youngest daughter has a very good colour. May I ask what you use?" "Soap and water, fresh air, good plain food,--those are the only cosmetics we use in this house," said Mrs Asplin, laughing outright at the idea of Mellicent's healthy bloom being the result of "skin treatment." "I am afraid I have too much to do looking after the necessities of life for my girls, Lady Darcy, to worry myself about their complexions." "Oh yes. Well, I'm sure they both look charming; but Rosalind will go much into society, and of course,"--She checked herself before the sentence was finished; but Mrs Asplin was quick enough to understand the imputation that the complexions of a vicar's daughters were but of small account, but that it was a very different matter when the Honourable Rosalind Darcy was concerned. She understood, but she was neither hurt nor annoyed by the inferences, only a little sad and very, very pitiful. She knew the story of the speaker's life, and the reason why she looked forward to Rosalind's entrance into society with such ambition. Lady Darcy had been the daughter of poor but well-born parents, and had married the widower, Lord Darcy, not because she loved him or had any motherly feeling for his two orphan boys, but simply and solely for a title and establishment, and a purse full of money. Given these, she had fondly imagined that she was going to be perfectly happy. No more screwing and scraping to keep up appearances; no more living in dulness and obscurity; she would be Lady Darcy, the beautiful young wife of a famous man. So, with no thought in her heart but for her own worldly advancement, Beatrice Fairfax stood before God's altar and vowed to love, honour, and obey a man for whom she had no scrap of affection, and whom she would have laughed to scorn if he had been poor and friendless. She married him, but the life which followed was not by any means all that she had expected. Lord Darcy had heavy money losses, which obliged him to curtail expenses almost immediately after his wedding; her own health broke down, and it was a knife in her heart to know that her boy was only the third son, and that the two big, handsome lads at Eton would inherit the lion's share of their father's property. Hector, the Lifeguardsman, and Oscar, the Dragoon, were for ever running into debt and making fresh demands on her husband's purse. She and her children had to suffer for their extravagances; while Robert, her only