No one had noticed, until now, that a lady was standing in the window, half concealed by the curtain. But, as she came forward everything else seemed to fade out of sight, for the moment, and leave only her, standing there alone in the clear, cold light of her marvellous beauty. Before this, Bergan's ideal of proud and queenly beauty had been painted with dark hair and eyes; he now saw reason to change it at once and forever. The lady was the most perfect blonde that he had ever seen. Her hair was of the palest brown, with only a faint gold light in it; her eyes were blue or gray, he could not tell which, at the moment, nor would he have been less puzzled after a much longer acquaintance; and her complexion was fair and colorless, almost, as marble; yet never had he beheld anything so stately, so proud, so calm, and--it must needs be said--so cold. She came forth from the shadow of the curtain as Galatea might have done, had she been endowed with life only, not with love. Worthy she might be to crown a victor, in right of her queenliness, but the laurels from her hands, Bergan thought, would be very chill! "Miss Thane!" exclaimed Mr. Youle, "why this _is_ a surprise, and a most pleasant one. It is seldom that you allow any of us to see you here, except Coralie." "Because my visits are usually morning visits," replied Miss Thane, in a low, yet singularly musical monotone, that harmonized perfectly with her face, "when I know that you are sure to be better engaged than in gossipping with me." Mr. Youle slightly raised his eyebrows, in good-humored recognition of the possibly careless, possibly studied, ambiguity of this explanation; but he let it pass without comment, as Coralie hastened to present her guests to each other. Bergan bowed low, with the graceful deference which always marked his bearing toward women; but Miss Thane was guilty of no waste of civility. She slightly inclined her head, vouchsafed him a single glance out of her wondrous eyes, and coolly turned back to the window, to lose herself, a moment after, in a fit of abstraction. Miss Youle--Mr. Youle's maiden sister, and the mistress of his household since his wife's death, many years ago--now appeared, clad in a thick, black silk that rustled like a field of corn in the wind, and dropped Bergan her stately, old-time courtesy. And Coralie immediately began to repeat the story of the trial to her, aided and abetted by Mr. Youle; from which embarrassing iteration Bergan would have been glad to escape, by joining Miss Thane at her window, had not her manner seemed to indicate so clearly that she was amply sufficient to herself, and did not care to be anything to anybody else. But the eloquence of Coralie and Mr. Youle finally came to a pause, if not to an end; Miss Thane roused from her abstraction; and the party went down to dinner.