A man of thirty years, of middle height, and compact, well-made figure; pleasing features, regular in their contour; auburn hair, curly and luxuriant by nature, but sheared off to bristles; yellow whiskers, likewise sheared, and a great fierce yellow moustache with curled corners. Somehow Rose, when Adeline said he was good-looking, had pictured to herself a tall, handsome man: she caught sight of the cropped hair and the moustache, and went through the introduction with her handkerchief to her mouth, splitting with laughter. Yet there was no mistaking the baron for anything but a gentleman and a high-bred man. "Mary!" whispered Rose, when she found the opportunity, "what a sacrifice for Adeline!" "How do you mean? Domestic happiness does not lie in looks. And if it did, the baron's are not so bad." "But look at his sheared hair, and those frightful moustaches! Why does he not cut the ends off, and dye them brown?" "Perhaps he is afraid of their turning green--if he has read 'Ten Thousand a Year.'" "Oh, Adeline! Adeline! I wonder if she is really betrothed to him?" "That's a superfluous wonder of yours, Rose," said Mary Carr. "The white wreath is on her head, and the betrothal ring on her finger." "If a shaven goat--and that's what _he_ is--put the ring upon mine, I should look out for some one else to take it off again," retorted Rose. "Dear Adeline!" she continued, as the latter advanced, "let me see your ring." Adeline drew off her glove and her ring together. "You should not have taken it from your finger," remarked Mary Carr. "We hold a superstition in Holland--some do--that a betrothal ring, once removed from the finger, will never be exchanged for a nuptial one." "Sheer nonsense, like most other superstitions," said Adeline; and her perfect indifference of manner proved that no love had entered into _her_ betrothal--as, indeed, how should it? "What had you both to do?" "Only sign some writings, and then he placed the ring on my finger. Nothing more." "Except a sealing kiss," said Rose, saucily. The colour stole over Adeline's face. Even her fair open brow, as it met the chaplet of white roses, became flushed. "Who but you, Rose, would dream of these vulgar familiarities?" she remonstrated. "Amongst the French, they would be looked upon as the very essence of bad taste." "_Taste!_" ejaculated Rose, contemptuously. "If you loved, you would know better. Wait until you do, Adeline, and then remember my words--and yours. It does not require much time for love to grow, if it will grow at all," she continued, in that half-abstracted manner which was now frequent with her--as if she were communing with herself, rather than talking to another. "Probably not," remarked Adeline, with indifference. "But even you, Rose, susceptible as you are known to be, will scarcely admit that a few hours are sufficient to call it forth."