There was a small stand full of books, chiefly of a lighter kind, prettily bound and profusely gilt. Some were novels, with such titles as _The Hero of the Cricket Field_, _The Long Jump_, _The Silver Racket_, and so on. Some were apparently poems, among them being Lady Longspin's _Vision of the Perfect Knight_, with a frontispiece, showing the Last Lap of the Seven-Mile Race; Julia Durdle's poems of the _Young Man's Crown of Glory_, and Aunt Agatha's _Songs for Girls at School or College_. There were others of a miscellaneous character, such as _Guide to the Young Politician_, being a series of letters to a peeress at Oxford; _Meditations in the University Church_; _Hymns for Men_; the _Sacrifice of the Faithful Heart_; _The Womanhood of Heaven; or, the Light and Hope of Men_, with many others whose title proclaimed the nature of their contents. The appearance of the books, however, did not seem to show that they were much read. 'I should have thought,' said the Professor, 'that Constance would have turned all this rubbish out of her breakfast-room. After all, though, what could she put in its place here?' As the clock struck eleven, the door opened, and the young lady whom the Professor spoke of as Constance appeared. She was a girl of twenty, singularly beautiful, her face was one of those very rare faces which seem as if nature, after working steadily in one mould for a good many generations, has at last succeeded in perfecting her idea. Most of our faces, somehow, look as if the mould had not quite reached the conception of the sculptor. Unfortunately, while such faces as that of Constance, Countess of Carlyon, are rare, they are seldom reproduced in children. Nature, in fact, smashes her mould when it is quite perfect, and begins again upon another. The hair was of that best and rarest brown, in which there is a touch of gold when the sun shines upon it. Her eyes were of a dark, deep blue; her face was a beautiful and delicate oval; her chin was pointed; her cheek perhaps a little too pale, and rather thin; and there was a broad edging of black under her eyes, which spoke of fatigue, anxiety, or disappointment. But she smiled when she saw her guest. 'Good morning, Professor,' she said, kissing the wrinkled cheek. 'It was good indeed of you to come. I only heard you were in town last night.' 'You are well this morning, Constance?' asked the Professor. 'Oh, yes!' replied the girl wearily. 'I am well enough. Let us have breakfast. I have been at work since eight with my secretary. You know that we resign to-day.' 'I gathered so much,' said the Professor, 'from the rag they call the _Official Gazette_. They do not report fully, of course, but it is clear that you had an exciting debate, and that you were defeated.' The Countess sighed. Then she reddened and clenched her hands.