The country people whispered strange things of "Miss Sybil" and her whims and fancies. The family had been known as "the reckless Burnets" ever since the Georgian days, when the sixth Viscount had, in one night at Crockford's, gambled away the whole of his vast Yorkshire estate, and his son on the following night lost forty-five thousand guineas at the same table. Dare-devilry ran in the Scarcliff blood. From the Wars of the Roses down to the present day the men had always been fearless soldiers--for some of their armour, and that of their retainers, still stood in long, grim rows in the dark-panelled gallery where we were--and the women had always been notable for their beauty, as proved by the famous portraits by Gainsborough, Lawrence, Lely, Reynolds, Hoppner, and others, that hung in the splendid gallery beyond. But surely none of those time-mellowed portraits that I could see from where I stood was half so beautiful as the little friend of my youth beside me. In those long-past days of our boy-and-girl affection she had been very fragile and very beautiful, with wondrous hair of that unusual gold-brown tint, and eyes of clear bright blue. But even now, at twenty-three, she had in no way lost her almost child-like grace and charm. Those deep blue eyes, turned upon me in mock reproach, were still fathomless, her cheeks were perfect in their symmetry, her mouth smiling and sweet, and her brows well arched and well defined, while her chin, slightly protruding, gave her that piquant air that was so delightful. Though unmarried, she was entirely unconventional, just as the Scarcliffs had ever been. Smart London knew Tibbie well. Some day she would many, people said, but the wiseacres shook their heads and secretly pitied the man who became her husband. As a friend Tibbie was perfect. She was a man's woman. She could shoot or fish, she would play bridge and pay up honourably, she rode well, and she drove her 60 h.p. "Mercedes" better even than her own chauffeur. Old Lady Scarcliff--a delightful old person--had long ago given her up as hopeless. It was all Cynthia's doing, for, truth to tell, her extravagances and her utter disregard for the _convenances_ were the outcome of her residence with the Wydcombes. I own frankly that I was sorry to see this change in her. The slim, rather prudish little love of my youth had now developed into that loud-speaking, reckless type of smart woman who nowadays is so much in evidence in Society. I much preferred her as I had known her years ago when my father and hers were intimate friends, and when I came so often to stay at Ryhall. True, our friendship had been a firm one always, but alas! I now detected a great change in her. Though so handsome, she was, as I had so very frankly told her, not exactly the kind of woman I should choose as a wife. And yet, after all, when I reflected I often thought her very sweet and womanly at home in the family circle.