The visitors, while courteous to her ladyship, bestowed the larger share of their attention upon the young heiress to whom their visit was directed. They had intended to make but a brief call, but the time flew by as if on wings. Neva talked with them with cheerful gayety or gravity, as the subject rendered befitting, and at Sir John’s request played and sang for him. Lord Towyn leaned over the piano, turning the music leaves, a rapt expression on his face, and there was not one present, save Neva, who failed to see that he was already the lover of the beautiful young heiress. Rufus Black recognized the fact with an actual jealousy. He said to himself with a furious bitterness that his happiness and Lally’s had been ruined for the sake of Neva Wynde, and he would not be cheated of fortune and bride by the young earl. Craven Black sat apart, his forehead shaded by his hand, his light eyes fairly devouring the glowing loveliness of Neva’s face. He was a world-worn, base, dissolute man, incapable of honor and fidelity, even to the woman who had sinned and perilled so much for him. As he sat there, he contrasted Neva’s spirited and dainty beauty with the maturer and lesser charms of Lady Wynde, and strange thoughts and hopes awoke to life within his breast. “My fate is not so settled as to be irrevocable,” he thought within himself. “I wish I had seen the girl before I forged that letter. Why should I throw myself away upon four thousand a year and a woman of the world when, by skillful manœuvring, I might gain seventy thousand per annum and a bride like an houri? I will study my chances. If there is a chance for me with Neva, I will run the race with these others and win the prize.” And so, all unknown and unsuspected by Neva, she had three aspirants to her hand among those who listened to her music. And of these three lovers, one only was pure and true and altogether worthy of her love. Only one loved her without a shadow of greed, and that one was the young Lord Towyn. But which, should she choose among these three, would she prefer? To whose fate, of these three, would she link her own? Would a regard for the supposed wishes of her dead father outweigh the desires of her own heart? These were problems which time alone could solve. After the music, Lady Wynde rang for coffee, which was brought in and dispensed to the guests. Sir John Freise, waxing eloquent upon the degeneracy of modern society, held Lady Wynde captive. Rufus Black wandered down the length of the drawing-rooms, looking with an artist’s eye at the glorious pictures upon the walls. Mr. Atkins and Craven Black engaged in conversation, and Artress sat apart, silent and observing, as usual.