The long windows were opened, and through them one saw the rippling of the rich green foliage in the park; the large iron balconies were filled with flowers, fragrant mignonette, lemon-scented verbenas, purple heliotropes, all growing in rich profusion.  The spray of the little scented fountain sparkled in the sun.  Every one agreed that there was no other room in London like the grand drawing-room at Verdun House.

There was something on that bright May afternoon more beautiful even than the flowers, the fountains, the bright-plumaged birds in their handsome cages, the white statues, or the pictures; that was the mistress and queen of all this magnificence, Philippa L’Estrange.  She was reclining on a couch that had been sent from Paris—­a couch made of finest ebony, and covered with pale, rose-colored velvet.  If Titian or Velasquez had seen her as she lay there, the world would have been the richer by an immortal work of art; Titian alone could have reproduced those rich, marvelous colors; that perfect, queenly beauty.  He would have painted the picture, and the world would have raved about its beauty.  The dark masses of waving hair; the lovely face with its warm Southern tints; the dark eyes lighted with fire and passion; the perfect mouth with its proud, sweet, imperial, yet tender lips; the white, dimpled chin; the head and face unrivaled in their glorious contour; the straight, dark brows that could frown and yet soften as few other brows could; the white neck, half hidden, half revealed by the coquettish dress; the white rounded arms and beautiful hands—­all would have struck the master.  Her dress fell round her in folds that would have charmed an artist.  It was of some rich, transparent material, the pale amber hue of which enhanced her dark loveliness.  The white arms were half shown, half covered by rich lace—­in the waves of her dark hair lay a yellow rose.  She looked like a woman whose smile could be fatal and dangerous as that of a siren, who could be madly loved or madly hated, yet to whom no man living could be indifferent.

She played for some few minutes with the rings on her fingers, smiling to herself a soft, dreamy smile, as though her thoughts were very pleasant ones; then she took up a volume of poems, read a few lines, and then laid the book down again.  The dark eyes, with a gleam of impatience in them, wandered to the clock.

“How slowly those hands move!” she said.

“You are restless,” observed a calm, low voice; “watching a clock always makes time seem long.”

“Ah, Lady Peters,” said the rich, musical tones, “when I cease to be young, I shall cease to be impatient.”

Lady Peters, the chosen confidante and chaperon of the brilliant heiress, was an elderly lady whose most striking characteristic appeared to be calmness and repose.  She was richly dressed in a robe of black moire, and she wore a cap of point lace; her snowy hair was braided back from a broad white brow; her face was kindly, patient, cheerful; her manner, though somewhat stately, the same.  She evidently deeply loved the beautiful girl whose bright face was turned to hers.