"I have never heard that it affects russet gowns either," said Miss Hastings. "Oh, Pauline, if you would but understand social politeness, social duties! If you would but keep your terrible ideas to yourself! If you would but remember that the outward bearing of life must be as a bright, shining, undisturbed surface! Do try to be more amiable to Lady Darrell!" "No!" exclaimed the girl, proudly. "I have warned her, and she has chosen to disregard my warning. I shall never assume any false appearance of amiability or friendship for her; it will be war to the knife! I told her so, and she chose to disbelieve me. I am a Darrell, and the Darrells never break their word." Looking at her, the unstudied grace of her attitude, the perfect pose, the grand face with its royal look of scorn, Miss Hastings felt that she would rather have the girl for a friend than an enemy. "I do hope, for your own sake, Pauline," she said, "that you will show every respect to Lady Darrell. All your comfort will depend upon it. You must really compromise matters." "Compromise matters!" cried Pauline. "You had better tell the sea to compromise with the winds which have lashed it into fury. There can be no compromise with me." The words had scarcely issued from her lips when the dinner-bell sounded, and Lady Darrell entered in a beautiful evening dress of white and silver. Certainly Sir Oswald's choice did him great credit. She was one of the most delicate, the most graceful of women, fair, caressing, insinuating--one of those women who would never dream of uttering barbarous truth when elegant fiction so much better served their purpose--who loved fine clothes, sweet perfumes, costly jewels--who preferred their own comfort in a graceful, languid way to anything else on earth--who expected to be waited upon and to receive all homage--who deferred to men with a graceful, sweet submission that made them feel the deference a compliment--who placed entire reliance upon others--whom men felt a secret delight in ministering to, because they appeared so weak--one of those who moved cautiously and graciously with subtle harmonious action, whose hands were always soft and jeweled, whose touch was light and gentle--a woman born to find her place in the lap of luxury, who shuddered at poverty or care. Such was Elinor Darrell; and she entered the drawing-room now with that soft, gliding movement that seemed always to irritate Pauline. She drew a costly white lace shawl over her fair shoulders--the rich dress of silver and white was studded with pearls. She looked like a fairy vision. "I think," she said to Miss Hastings, in her quiet, calm way, "that the evening is cold." "You have just left a warm country, Lady Darrell," was the gentle reply. "The South of France is blessed with one of the most beautiful climates in the world."