"If she feels strange," he said, thoughtfully, "she does not show it. I never saw more perfect grace and ease than hers. I do not think anything in the world would ruffle her. I think if she were on board a ship that was going down inch by inch, and she knew that she was within, say, five minutes of death, she would not flinch, or drop for a moment the smile which usually rests upon her lips. That is her charm, Stella--the perfect ease and perfect grace which spring from a consciousness of her power." There was silence for a moment. The painter had spoken in his usual dreamy fashion, more like communion with his own thoughts than a direct address to his hearer, and Stella, listening, allowed every word to sink into her mind. His description impressed her strongly, more than she cared to admit. Already, so it seemed to her, she felt fascinated by this beautiful creature, who appeared as perfect and faultless as one of the heathen goddesses--say Diana. "Where does she live?" she asked, dreamily. He smoked in silence for a moment. "Live? I scarcely know; she is everywhere. In London in the season, visiting in country houses at other times. There is not a house in England where she would not be received with a welcome accorded to princes. It is rather strange that she should be down here just now; the season has commenced, most of the visitors have left the Hall, some of them to be in their places in Parliament. It is rather strange that she should have come down at this time." Stella colored, and a feeling of vague irritation took possession of her--why, she scarcely knew. "I should think that everyone would be glad to come to Wyndward Hall at any time--even Lady Lenore Beauchamp," she said, in a low voice. He nodded. "Wyndward Hall is a fine place," he said, slowly, "but Lady Lenore is accustomed to--well, to palaces. There is not a ball-room in London where her absence will not be noticed. It is strange. Perhaps"--and he smiled--"Lady Wyndward has some motive." "Some motive?" repeated Stella, turning her eyes toward him. "What motive can she have?" "There is Leycester," he said, musingly. "Leycester?" The word was out of her lips before she was aware of it, and a vivid crimson dyed her face. "Lord Leycester, I mean." "Yes," he answered. "Nothing would please his mother more than to see him marry, and he could not marry a more suitable person than Lenore. Yes, that must be it, of course. Well, he could not do better, and as for her, though she has refused greater chances, there is a charm in being the future Countess of Wyndward, which is not to be despised. I wonder whether he will fall into the trap--if trap it is intended to be."