“It fits,” she soliloquized, curving her neck in her anxiety to obtain a back view of herself. “It fits like a glove, and so Grif will be sure to like it. His admiration for clothes that fit amounts to a monomania. He will make his usual ecstatic remarks on the subject of figure, too. And I must confess,” with modest self-satisfaction,--“I must confess that those frills are not unbecoming. If we were only rich--and married--how I would dress, to please him! Being possessed of a figure, one's results are never uncertain. Figure is a weakness of mine, also. With the avoirdupois of Miss Jolliboy, life would appear a desert. Ten thousand per annum would not console me. And yet she wears sables and seal-skin, and is happy. It is a singular fact, worthy of the notice of the philosopher, that it is such women who invariably possess the sable and seal-skin. Ah, well!” charitably, “I suppose it is a dispensation of Providence. When they attain that size they need some compensation.” Often in after time she remembered the complacent little touch of vanity, and wondered how it had been possible that she could stand there, making so thoughtless and foolish a speech when danger was so near, and so much of sharp, passionate suffering was approaching her. She had waited until the last minute, and finding, on consulting her watch, that it was past six, she decided to wait no longer. She took up her gloves from the dressing-table and drew them on; she settled the little drooping plume in her hat and picked up her muff, and then, giving a last glance and a saucy nod to the piquant reflection in the glass, she opened her bedroom door to go out. And then it was, just at this last moment, that there came a ring at the hall-door bell,--evidently a hurried ring, and withal a ring which made her heart beat, she knew not why. She stood at the head of the staircase and listened. A moment later, and the visitor was speaking to the servant who had admitted him. “Mr. Gowan,” she heard. “Miss Crewe--wish to see her at once--at once.” She knew by his voice that something was wrong, and she did not wait for the up-coming of the servant. She almost flew down the staircase, and entered the parlor an instant after him; and when he saw her he met her with an exclamation of thankfulness. “Thank God!” he said, “that you are ready!” He was pale with excitement, and fairly out of breath. He did not give her time to answer him. “You must come with me,” he said. “There is not a moment to lose. I have a cab at the door. I have driven here at full speed. The report is true, and I have found out that to-night Chandos leaves London. But that is not the worst,--for God's sake, be calm, and remember how much depends upon your courage,--he intends taking your sister with him.”