Early the next morning Mark Sutherland descended to the drawing-room. No one was there except Oriole, who had just stepped from her mistress’s boudoir, and was crossing the room, on her way to some other part of the house. Once more Mark Sutherland was mournfully affected by the marvellous, the fatal beauty of the poor girl. As she met and was passing him, with eyes cast down, cheeks painfully flushed, and heart beating, as it had too well learned to beat with fear at the look of man, his heart was moved with deep pity. He had known her from her infancy; he held out his hand, and spoke to her, saying—“How do you do, Oriole? You have not spoken to me since my arrival.” But without touching his hand, or even venturing a glance at his face, the maiden dropped a quick courtesy as she passed, and hurried on her errand. “Poor, hunted, trembling deer!” said Mark: “she cannot even trust a friend. Is it possible to save her?” His thoughts dwelt with painful but vain intensity upon the hapless girl, and it was many minutes before the old familiar scene around him—suggestive as it was of the most joyous as well as the most painful passages in his past life—could recall him to himself. He gazed around. The sliding doors and the flowing curtains that divided the boudoir from the saloon, were drawn entirely back, revealing the whole apartment. Yes; here was the same saloon, the temple of joyous reunions, and the same boudoir, the shrine of beauty, love, and happiness. The same, yet how changed from all the pristine splendour of the past! Then all was order, beauty, freshness, and enjoyment. Now all was indifference, neglect, decay, and desolation. Even there, in the sacred boudoir of India—the latest sanctuary of elegance and luxury—rust and must, mildew and canker, had crept over all. There the sumptuous hangings of purple and gold, that made the bower seem like some gorgeous oriental sunset scene, were now faded and tarnished—the royal purple turned to a dull, streaked brown and drab—the gold cankered with green verdigris. The cheval mirrors were specked thickly with mildew, and obscured with fly-stains; the marble tables stained and smirched; and, for the fragrance of fresh flowers, a close, damp, stifling smell of must pervaded the apartment. All was cheerless, hopeless, desolate.