Before he could answer, she had taken off her large hat and veil. Without them she looked more beautiful than ever, with the naturally waving and silky curls of her blue-black hair framing her exquisite face. Coming nearer to him, she nestled her head on his shoulder with a spontaneous gesture of affection, and lifting her long, soft eyes to his, she inclined her red lips toward his face in a little _moue_, irresistible in so beautiful a woman. Lord Carthew was only a man, and in an instant he had forgotten all that she had said and done amiss in his delight at her unexpected tenderness. In a transport of passionate love, he pressed her in his arms, and repeatedly kissed her lips, her eyes and cheeks, and the soft curls about her brow. “How adorably beautiful you are, my darling!” he exclaimed, as he caressed her face with his hand. “It is strange that I never until to-day realized your wonderful loveliness. You were always so pale, but to-day you have a color like a _la France_ rose, and eyes that will make your diamonds look dowdy and dull. Have you the least idea how beautiful you are, Stella?” She smiled for answer, and appeared pleased at his kisses and caresses. It was not until afterward that her ready affection struck him as unusual in a girl of her training. At the time, being very much in love, he was too much delighted to analyze her conduct. At Peterstone Station there was a stoppage of a few minutes, and Lady Carthew, who was intensely restless, ran to the window, looked up and down the platform, and then suddenly turning on her bridegroom, informed him that she was longing for a cup of tea. “I will tell Trevor,” he said, and was hurrying to the window to summon his servant when she laid her hands on his arm. “I would rather you fetched it me yourself,” she said, coaxingly. “I shall not enjoy it from any one else.” Thus adjured, Lord Carthew could do nothing less than spring out of the carriage at once to carry out his lady’s behests. The moment he had gone, his bride stretched herself, yawned, arranged her hair at the looking-glass, and then leaned out of the window again. As she expected, Stephen Lee stood a little way down the line, watching her saloon, and she motioned with her hand for him to join her. All the other passengers by the Portsmouth train were fully aware that Lord Northborough’s heir was travelling toward his father’s seat, in the Isle of Wight, on his honeymoon journey with Sir Philip Cranstoun’s daughter. The rank of the pair and the extreme beauty of the bride naturally attracted many curious glances in the direction of the saloon, and at Peterstone several of their more inquisitive fellow-travellers left their seats in order to stroll about the platform, in the hope of getting a good look at the newly made Viscountess Carthew.