The only flaw in the long campaign was the sleeping soul of Cydonia. For as the years passed over her head, and her mother watched with anxious eyes, it seemed to her that her offspring lacked that latent force which in both her parents had spurred them on to fulfill themselves. She had no energy, no enthusiasm. Beautiful, passive, sweetly good, no one could truly call her clever. Beneath her lily-white, delicate grace, she was just a healthy young animal, content to exist, without ambition, to eat and walk and deeply sleep. And watching this, with her restless mind, the mother began to pin her hope on the element she herself had scorned, the stimulus of awakening love. It stung her pride at times to feel that a daughter of hers could lack brain power! Education had been her all--the motive force of her strenuous life. And now Minerva, with wise cold eyes, must be set aside for the God of Love. With ever the risk of the sacrifice: that his altar might snatch from her her child. Something of this passed through her mind as Helen stood before the glass, mechanically smoothing her hair in its straight gray bands above her brow. She could see the reflection of the room; the long white walls where the pictures hung, each with its own reflecting light, each a great man's masterpiece. Here and there the wintry sun caressed a statue or carven pillar, gilding the backs of the great high chairs, where long-dead prelate and prince had sat. For the room was a very treasure house, breathing history at each turn, filled with beauty of colour and form, mellowed by the touch of age. And the thought pierced through her with sharp pain that all she had accomplished here, knowledge and forethought of long years, the daily care from the hour of birth when in agony she had borne her child: all could be swept aside, made nought by the first love-words breathed by a man. "Cydonia"--her voice was sharp, reflecting the tension of her mood, and the girl looked up with a mild surprise. "Put your work away, my dear," she smiled with an effort as her daughter complied. "I can hear the Bishop coming upstairs." But as she spoke the door went wide. "Mr. McTaggart," the man announced. CHAPTER IV Nothing could ruffle Cydonia's calm. The smile she had, unconsciously, prepared for the Bishop warmed McTaggart as he entered the room. Dazed him a little, truth to tell, she looked so lovely sitting there. On her mother's face he read surprise and hastened to explain his mission. "I'm the bearer of a message from Lady Leason. I must apologize for the hour, but she asked me to come on at once. She's dreadfully worried about the Tableaux. It seems Marie Dilke is off to Cannes. 'Doctor's orders'--so she says. Anyhow," he smiled mischievously, "one can understand the excuse this weather! So now the third picture is spoilt. We want another Sleeping Beauty. And I thought--we thought," he glanced at Cydonia--"that perhaps your daughter would help us out."