Her face was a very fine one; her eyes were golden hazel--a perilous kind of eye--'light hazel, the fickle colour,' says a writer, 'the most fickle eye that shines--the eye ever changing, ever seeking something new, ever wearying of what it hath, ever greedy of enjoyment in the present, ever ungrateful for the past and unmindful of the future.' Such were the eyes of the handsome woman on whom the face of Fotheringhame was bent with tenderness, and what a beautifully moulded face his was, with its heavy, dark moustache, straight nose and well-defined eyebrows. 'If my husband,' she began. 'Don't talk of him, Fanny!' he interrupted, angrily. 'Oh, the wretch is married!' whispered Annabelle. 'And her name is Fanny,' added Mary. 'And so the lawyers have got your case in their hands, my poor Fanny?' said he. 'Yes--and when may I get it out of them again?' 'The devil alone knows--he is the great master in all matters legal.' (Now what could this case be, thought the listeners; here was a fresh mystery--perhaps degradation.) 'To serve you, I sold my troop in the Lancers, and with the money----' 'I know, Leslie--I know all, dearest. I have suffered much since then.' 'Despite all that, how handsome you are still!' said he, tenderly and admiringly. 'I was handsome a few years ago, as you know well,' she replied with a sad, but coquettish smile; 'but why seek to flatter me now, dearest Leslie, you of all men?' 'There is a flatterer beyond us all, Fanny--your own mirror.' She laughed at this, but there was undoubted sadness in her laugh. 'Intolerable!' muttered Annabelle, and unwilling to hear more of this mysterious conversation she withdrew in grief and dismay, followed by Mary, who knew not what to make or to think of the whole situation. They had barely reached home when Fotheringhame came punctually to luncheon, wearing the same dress he had worn at the peculiar assignation, easy and frank in manner, with his usual smile of tenderness for Annabelle, who strove to hide the coldness of her manner and the ire of her spirit, but utterly failed to check the nervous quiver of her sensitive lip. Mary, who had to act as hostess, and who had no personal interest in this matter, scarcely knew what to do, or how to comport herself, full as she was of disappointment and just indignation. The abstraction of her manner was apparent to Leslie Fotheringhame, who scored it down to Falconer's affair; and as Sir Piers, Mrs. Garth, and Hew were all absent, she was thankful for the attendance of Tunley on the trio; but the luncheon proceeded with indescribable slowness and oppressive silence--a silence broken only by strained and disjointed remarks.