"Her cousin. She's the daughter of the Dean of Westerbury: Fred St. John's native place, you know. Sarah is the daughter of the dean's brother, General Beauclerc. Her mother's dead, the Lady Sarah; and since then she has lived with the dean. In point of family it would be a suitable match; and I dare say in point of fortune." "And in point of love?" There was a peculiar sound in the hesitation, a tremor which struck on Rose's ear. She turned her face full on Adeline's. "I believe with all my heart, from what I've heard, that there _was_ love between them," answered Rose. "Perhaps _is_. Adeline, I don't say this in ill-nature, but because it may be good for you to know it. I am careless and random in general, but I _can_ be serious; and I am speaking seriously now. He is a gay-mannered man, you know, a general admirer; those attractive men usually are so; but I have little doubt that his love was given to Sarah Beauclerc." Rose went into the room with the last sentence. She had really spoken from a good motive. Believing that Adeline was getting to like Frederick St. John more than was good for her, consistently with her engagement to the French baron, a word in season might act as a warning. Little did Rose suspect how far things had gone between them. An hour passed. All save Adeline were gathered in the lighted room. Some were playing chess, some écarté, some were telling Father Marc, who had dropped in, of the young Englishman's sudden departure for England and its cause. Rose was at the piano, singing English songs in a subdued voice. Never was there a sweeter voice than hers: and old Madame de Beaufoy could have listened always to the bygone songs of her native land. Adeline had not stirred from the terrace; she was leaning still on its balustrades, gazing forth apparently into the night. But that Madame de Castella did not observe her absence, she had been called in long ago, out of the night air. "Oh, beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is a green-eyed monster, which doth make The food it feeds on."