"Oh, _that_ would never do," she cried. "My little Laurel is as beautiful as a dream, but she is not a fitting mate for St. Leon Le Roy. He is wealthy and aristocratic, and, I have heard, as proud as Lucifer. And she--a drunken journalist's daughter! No, no, that would never do, Cyril. She would not dare! I am not afraid of such a thing. She shall come and live with me and be like my own sister when her stay at Eden is over, and we shall find her a husband more suitable to her than St. Leon Le Roy!" CHAPTER X. Two months had passed, and Laurel Vane still remained at Eden, in her character of Mr. Gordon's daughter. The clever conspiracy had not been discovered yet. Indeed there seemed less chance of this catastrophe than at first. Laurel, with ready adaptability, was beginning to fit herself into her place. Under Clarice's constant tuitions and admonitions, her shyness and timidity had been somewhat overcome, and a pretty, graceful ease had replaced it. Her beauty had expanded and increased like a flower in the sunshine. As the first restraint of her manner wore off, she developed a rare grace and winning sweetness that, added to her native originality, made her very charming. Mrs. Le Roy, in her stately, quiet way, had grown fond of her guest. "Although there could not be a greater contrast imagined than exists between Beatrix and her mother, I am inclined to give the palm to the former," she confided to St. Leon. "I was fond of Mrs. Gordon when she was a girl. She was a fair, sweet young girl, but she lacked the charms that distinguish Beatrix. The girl makes me think of some beautiful, timid, wild bird." "At first you thought her awkward and uncultivated," said St. Leon, carelessly. "It was mere shyness that has worn off long ago," answered Mrs. Le Roy. "She puzzles me still, but she no longer appears awkward and uncultured. Still I admit that her education has been an unconventional one. She knows little that a girl in her position might be expected to know. On the contrary, she has some attainments not to be looked for. She knows German and Latin and some French, but she has no accomplishments, and she cannot play the piano. She says her father educated her. I take it he is a peculiar person." "Rather, I should say," St. Leon assents, with his slightly bored air. "Anyhow, I believe she is perfectly cured of her fancy for that--that person. I have never heard his name yet--have you, St. Leon?" "Yes; it is Cyril Wentworth." "A good name. Is it possible that Beatrix told you?" exclaims his mother. "No; I heard it once, by the merest accident, on one of my trips to New York," St. Leon answers, with bland indifference. "And--a--ah!--what kind of a man is he, St. Leon? As black as he was painted?" "By no means--they say even the devil is not that, you know," with a short, dry laugh. "I have even seen the fellow. He is comparatively poor--I should say that that is the worst there is to him." "Handsome?"