"Miss Neville is certainly very beautiful," mused she, "but so quiet, so meek; no animation about her, nothing to charm such a man as Mr. Vavasour with." Then she wondered if she herself possessed that power. She rose up, and again stood before the glass, which reflected back her proud, beautiful face, with the conscious haughty look, that if beauty had the power to charm it was hers, she need fear no rival. Then she re-arranged the flower which she had previously pinned in her hair, and a smile, sparkling with pleasure, showed that she was satisfied. Mr. Linchmore judged Robert Vavasour's character more justly than his wife, although neither quite understood it. The mystery of his birth was the shadow continually haunting Vavasour's path, and making him thoughtless and trifling towards women. If his mother, as he believed, still lived, where was her gentle, tender love? Why had he never felt it? Why had she so cruelly deserted him, and left him to fight his own way in the world, with no name but a false one? His heart hardened against womankind. If a mother could be false to her child, what woman could be true? What woman worth living or caring for? They were triflers all, and to be trifled with; so he held no reverence in his heart for them, but flirted with his hostess thoughtlessly, and admired her as he would have admired any other beautiful woman; as he admired Amy, and would have flirted with her also if she would have let him. Would his heart ever be touched by love? ever see reason to regret or recall the rash vow he had made that no woman should ever hold a place in his heart, seeing that in loving her he would have to plead, not only his love, but his nameless birth. CHAPTER IV. THE INTERVIEW. ----"Earthly things Are but the transient pageants of an hour; And earthly pride is like the passing flower, That springs to fall, and blossoms but to die." HENRY KIRKE WHITE. "Whoever looks on life will see How strangely mortals disagree." CAWTHORNE. It was almost dusk as Frances Strickland, who had been sitting for the last hour before the glass trying the effect of a wreath of fuschias she intended wearing at some forthcoming party, laid the flowers on the dressing table with a dissatisfied sigh as her maid entered the room with candles. "At last!" exclaimed she, impatiently, "what have you been about, Jane? I thought you would never come; make haste and dress me for dinner, as I wish to try the effect of these flowers in my hair." Proud and haughty as Frances was to her equals, she seldom or ever showed much pride to her maid, or if it did occasionally peep out, it was instantly checked and controlled.