“No. I never was so surprised in my life as the first time I saw her. That must be ten years ago now, George?” “Yes. She was away ten years, and she’s been back at the Court nearly the same time. That makes it about twenty years, as I thought. Dear me, it seems impossible!” “She doesn’t alter at all, does she? Her hair may have got a little whiter since I first saw her, but I believe she’s prettier even. Well! Foreign travel must be wonderful if it can change a plain, dowdy creature into a woman like Miss Page.” “Money!” exclaimed the Vicar, sententiously. “Money. It may be the root of all evil, but it’s a great power--a great power, Mary.” “Mrs. Dakin’s always very much over-dressed, isn’t she?” remarked his wife, as they approached the Vicarage porch. “Yes. Foolish little woman that--foolish little woman. Take care how you get out, Mary; the step is awkward.” The sound of a high sweet voice floated out upon the darkness, and Mrs. Carfax looked up sharply at a lighted window on the first floor. “There’s Sylvia singing!” she exclaimed in an exasperated tone. “She’ll wake all the children. Run up and tell her to stop at once, George! Really, she is the most annoying girl I ever met.” II Left alone for a few moments while his hostess was making her farewells in the hall, Monsieur Fontenelle sat still admiring the beautiful room, quiet now, its long windows open to the night and to the sound of the whispering trees. Lighted by pink-shaded candles, its white panelled walls, its rose-patterned chintz curtains and chair-covers gave it an air of exquisite freshness and purity. Everywhere there were flowers. Roses glowed between the candles on the mantelpiece. China bowls filled with sweet peas, with pink mallows, with snapdragon, stood on tables, or on the top of Sheraton bureaus. Even the deep fireplace was filled with flowering plants. Appreciatively, Monsieur Fontenelle glanced at the delicate workmanship of a Chippendale chair, noticed the graceful shape of a writing-table, and the beauty of an inlaid bookcase with a lattice-work of wood over its diamond panes. There were only one or two pictures on the walls, whose creamy surface made a restful background to the colour in the room. Monsieur Fontenelle examined them. His quick eye detected a Corot, a tiny sketch of Whistler’s, and then on the wall opposite to him, a landscape at the sight of which a peculiar brightness sprang to his eyes. He crossed the room and stood looking at it. He was still looking at it when the rustle of a gown made him aware that Miss Page had come back. Then he turned. She was standing just within the door, watching him, and in her eyes also there was the same curious brightness. He looked at her a moment whimsically, without moving. “You are a wonderful woman!” he exclaimed at last, speaking in French. “Why?” she returned in the same language. He shrugged his shoulders.