“How do you know she is one of the ‘people of her class?’ And supposing she is, she is a woman, and young and possibly good looking, and New York is an awful place for a young, good-looking woman to land in, an entire stranger. So, _ma chère_ auntie, I shall meet her just as I should want some chap of a Guy Seymour to meet my sister if I had one. And, auntie, I beg of you to unbend a little, and try to make her feel at home. I’ve no doubt she’ll be as homesick as I was the first time I ever visited you when I was a boy, and cried so hard to go home that I vomited up that quart of green gooseberries I had eaten surreptitiously out in the garden. Do you remember it? And so kind-hearted Guy had his way, and when he told Magdalen that his aunt had kept him in a constant worry on her account, he had reference to a widely different state of affairs from what his words implied and what he meant they should imply. He had been fighting for her all day and insisting that if she was a lady she should be treated as a lady, and when he met her at the depot, he felt that he had been wholly right in the course he had pursued. She _was_ a lady, and pretty, too, as nearly as he could judge through the drab veil which covered her face. The veil was off when she came out to dinner, and Guy, who met her at the door and conducted her to the table, started a little to see how beautiful and graceful she was, and how like a queen she bore herself toward his aunt, who took her in now, from her black, shining hair to the sweep and cut of her fashionable travelling dress. “That is last spring’s style. It must have been made in New York,” was Mrs. Seymour’s mental comment, and she felt a growing respect for one whose dress bore so unmistakably the New York stamp upon it. _She_ was dressed in satin,—soft, French gray satin,—whose heavy folds stood out from her slender figure and covered up the absence of hoops, which she never wore. There was a point lace coiffure on her head and point lace at her throat and wrists, and diamonds on her fat white hands, and she looked to the full a lady of the high position and blood which she professed, and she was very kind to Magdalen, albeit there was a certain stiffness in her manner which would have precluded the slightest approach to anything like familiarity had Magdalen attempted it.