He stopped short as he saw her, and coming up to her, put his hand on her white shoulder. "Writing, mother?" he said. The countess folded her letter. "Yes. Where are you going?" He pointed to the Louis Quatorze clock that ticked solemnly on a bracket. "Ten o'clock, mother," he said, with a smile. "Oh, yes; I see," she assented. He stood for a moment looking down at her with all a young man's filial pride in a mother's beauty, and, bending down, touched her cheek with his lips, then passed out. The countess looked after him with softened eyes. "Who could help loving him?" she murmured. Humming an air from the last opera bouffe, he ran lightly up the staircase and passed along the corridor, but as he reached the further end and knocked at a door, the light air died upon his lips. A low voice murmured, "Come in;" and opening the door gently, he entered. The room was a small one, and luxuriously furnished in a rather strange style. On the first entrance, a stranger would have been struck by the soft and delicate tints which pervaded throughout. There was not a brilliant color in the apartment; the carpet and hangings, the furniture, the pictures themselves were all of a reposeful tint, which could not tire the eye or weary the sense. The carpet was a thick Persian rug, which deadened the sound of footsteps, costly hangings of a cool and restful gray covered the walls, save at intervals; the fire itself was screened by a semi-transparent screen, and the only light in the room came from a lamp which was suspended by a silver chain from the ceiling, and was covered by a thick shade. On a couch placed by the window reclined a young girl. As Leycester entered, she half rose and turned a pale, but beautiful face toward him with an expectant smile. Beautiful is a word that is easily written, and written so often that its significance has got dulled: it fails to convey any idea of the ethereal loveliness of Lilian Wyndward. Had Mr. Etheridge painted a face with Leycester's eyes, and given it the delicately-cut lips and spiritual expression of one of Raphael's angels, it would have been a fair representation of Lilian Wyndward. "It is you Leycester," she said. "I knew you would come," and she pointed to a small traveling clock that stood on a table near her. He went up to her and kissed her, and she put her arms round his neck and laid her face against his, her eyes looking into his with rapt devotion. "How hot you are, dear. Is it hot down there?" "Awfully," he said, seating himself beside her, and thrusting his hands into his pockets. "There is not a breath of air moving, and if there were the governor would take care to shut it out. This room is deliriously cool, Lil; it is a treat to come into it." "Is it?" she said, with a glad eagerness. "You really think it is. I like to hear you say that." "Yes, it's the prettiest room in the house. What is it smells so sweet?" "Lilac," she said, and she pointed to a bunch on the table.