“That is just a man’s ignorance, Godfrey,” she said, shaking her finger at him, as she seated herself in one of the bamboo chairs, a dazzling figure in the light of the blazing logs, which danced about her eyes and hair and copper-coloured gown in a bewildering manner. “You think me handsome, I suppose?” “Eminently so.” “And you think I should be just as handsome if I dressed anyhow—in a badly-fitting Tussore, for instance, made last year and cleaned this year, and with a hat of my own trimming, eh, Godfrey?” “Every bit as handsome.” “That shows what an ignoramus a University education can leave a man. My dearest boy, half my good looks depend upon my dressmaker. Not for worlds would I have you see me a dowdy, if only for a quarter of an hour. The disillusion might last a lifetime. I dress to please you, remember, sir. It was of you I thought when I was choosing my trousseau. I want to be lovely in your eyes always, always, always.” “You need make no effort to attain your wish. You have put so strong a spell upon my eyes that with me at least you are independent of the dressmaker’s art.” “Again I say you don’t know what you are talking about. But frankly now, do you think this gown too gaudy?” “That coppery background to my Murillo Madonna. No, love; the colour suits you to perfection.” She poured out the tea, and then sank back in her comfortable chair, in a reverie, languid after her explorations at the Priory, full of a dreamlike happiness as she basked in the glow of the fire, welcome as a novel indulgence at this time of the year. “There is nothing more delightful than a fire in July,” she said. Her eyes wandered about the room idly. “Do you call them handsome?” she asked presently. Godfrey looked puzzled. Was she still harping on the dress question, or was she challenging his admiration for those glorious eyes which he had been watching in their rovings for a lazy five minutes. “I mean the Strangways. That is their famous beauty—the girl in the scanty white satin petticoat, with the goat. Imagine any one walking about a wood, with a goat, in white satin. What queer ideas portrait painters must have had in those days. She is very lovely though, isn’t she?” “She is not my ideal. I don’t admire that narrow Cupid’s-bow mouth, the lips pinched up as if they were pronouncing ‘prunes and prism.’ The eyes are large and handsome, but too round; the complexion is wax-dollish. No, she is not _my_ ideal.” “I should have been miserable if you had admired her.” “There is a face in the hall which I like ever so much better, and yet I doubt if it is a good face.” “Which is that?” “The face of the girl in that group of John Strangway’s three children.” “That girl with the towsled hair and bright blue eyes. Yes, she must have been handsome—but she looks—I hope you won’t be shocked, but I really can’t help saying it—that girl looks a devil.” “Poor soul! Her temper did not do much good for her. I believe she came to a melancholy end.”