As they strolled up and down, their talk wandered from small details of social pleasures and duties to more important ones connected with the estate. No allusion was made to the dead son. Mrs. Marlowe had not named him since the day she heard of his death. But the Admiral felt her hand tremble on his arm as he speculated on the amount of Cynthia's knowledge of her heiress-ship. He looked down at her tenderly. She had been a beauty in her youth, and sorrow had chiselled her features into increased delicacy by giving her an air of plaintive melancholy. 'Let us tell Cynthy the truth and hear what she will say,' he said. 'Yes, by all means,' said Mrs. Marlowe. 'My good Mrs. Hennifer, will you bring her here? She's on the bowling-green, or was. Heaven knows where she may have been spirited off to by this time, Heaven or the fairies. I think they're her nearest of kin.' Mrs. Hennifer went in search, disappearing behind a group of cedars whose shadow, thrown at noon on the drawing-room windows, kept it cool on the hottest day. They heard her calling 'Cynthia!' as she passed in and out among the trees or crossed the lawns. Presently a man's tones answered 'Here we are!' Then came a girl's light laugh. A few moments more and Cynthia appeared alone upon the terrace. She was very lovely. It was prophesied that she would be the beauty of Riding and county. She had been in town this spring for the sake of masters, and her portrait had been painted by one of the greatest artists of the day. He generally spiritualised his subjects, but when he saw Cynthia Marlowe he knew that if he added to nature's spiritualisation he must add wings. It went from his studio to Lafer. The Admiral would allow no 'vulgar herd' to criticise it at Burlington House. His pride in her was the chivalrous pride which guards against publicity for women, and recognises even beauty's 'noblest station' as 'retreat.' The portrait was hung at one end of the long drawing-room. In walking towards it, it seemed that Cynthia herself was standing to greet the comer. She was already tall, and as slight and straight as the natural gymnasium of judicious liberty, fresh air, and pure influences could make her. She was dressed in white, and her golden hair hung in curls to her waist. Her fair skin readily showed a flush. Her brows were level, her lips firm yet sensitive. There was an exquisite transparency in her eyes, which were large and of a warm hazel colour. She looked at every one with a frank and fearless confidence that was unwittingly fascinating. 'Cynthy,' said the Admiral, smiling upon her as every one did, 'there's a question we want to ask you. Have you ever wondered to whom Lafer will go when we die?' 'Yes,' she said; 'but I have not liked to know you will die.'