The delicate health of Lady Millicent Vavasour was, to the surprise of the world in general, the alleged motive for her spending the winter abroad. It had been suddenly discovered that the lungs of the heiress were delicate; and although her breadth of chest and generally healthy appearance tended to correct the assertion, public interest--no unusual occurrence when the _malade imaginaire_, or otherwise, happens to be a millionaire--was immediately enlisted in “poor dear” Lady Millicent’s behalf. “So young!” “so gifted!” “so attractive!” It would, indeed, be hard (and a “liberty” was _implied_, if not actually spoken) if Death should venture to approach within hailing-distance the august person of the Lady of Gillingham. Happily, however, as it soon became manifest, there was no immediate danger that the wealth of the heiress would be turned into some obscure and probably (to the public) uninteresting channel. Long before the money-scattering English party had reached Florence the Lady Millicent had thrown off every appearance of invalidness, and was ready for any amusement suitable to her exalted position which chance might throw in her way. And ready, too, for something more than amusement--ready to be softened into as much love as her nature was capable of feeling, by one worthy of the best affections of a far worthier woman than was the Lady Millicent Vavasour. Cecil Vavasour was a cousin, many times removed, of that autocratic lady--the descendant of a junior branch of the noble family whose name he bore; and, moreover, in _his_ branch of the family there existed the title of baron--a title which there was every probability would eventually be borne by this poor and comparatively obscure relation. Comparatively obscure, for in a world of his own--a world that was not that of the Lady Millicent Vavasour--the intellectual but retiring Cecil was known and honoured. She for that reason, among others too insignificant to mention, had never till on the occasion of this her first continental trip chanced to fall in with her kinsman; and when at last she did make his acquaintance, the effect of even a first meeting was marked and decisive. Not that there was much in Cecil Vavasour’s outward man calculated to touch a woman’s fancy or to win her heart. He was some years past thirty, and in person neither handsome nor the reverse; but there was a something undefinably attractive even in the reserve of manner, that spoke of latent power, and of an intelligence above that of ordinary and unreflecting mortals. He was tall, too, and of a stately presence; one of those men, in short, to whom, both physically and mentally, a woman, be she ever so highly placed in her own estimation, would hardly have refused to pay the tribute of tacitly acknowledging to her own self that he was her master. Cecil’s father, a practical though not exactly a discerning man, had intended his only son for the Bar; but