What did I think when I saw that stately dining-room, with its brilliant lights, the gold and silver, the recherche dishes, the odorous wines and rare fruits?  My first feeling was one of wonder that fortune should have so overpowered me; my second was a fervent wish that such pleasant times could fall to every one.

I had finished dinner and enjoyed, for the first time in my life, a really prime cigar, when Hewson came into the library, evidently wishing to see me.

“I thought I had better tell you.  Sir Edgar, that Mademoiselle d’Aubergne is in the drawing-room.”

I looked at him in astonishment.

“Who is Mademoiselle d’Aubergne?” I asked.

“Do you not know, Sir Edgar?” he said, in great surprise.

“I have never even heard the name,” I replied.

“Mademoiselle is the daughter of the late Sir Barnard’s cousin; she has been living here for the past five years.  Sir Barnard, I believe, adopted her.  I thought perhaps Messrs. Moreland & Paine might have mentioned her.”

They had perhaps forgotten to do so, and I felt quite at a loss what to do.  However, if there was a lady in the house, I was bound to be courteous; so I went to the drawing-room.

I attempt no description of that magnificent room, its treasures of art, its statues, pictures, flowers, its wonders of bric-a-brac.  For the first minute my eyes were dazzled, and then I saw—­

Well, I had read in the old poets’ descriptions of sirens’ wondrous language, wondrous words telling of beauty almost divine in its radiance—­of golden hair that had caught the sunshine and held it captive—­of eyes like lode-stars, in whose depths men lost themselves—­of lovely scarlet lips that could smile and threaten.  I saw such loveliness before me now.

From the luxurious depths of a crimson velvet fauteuil rose a lovely woman, who advanced to meet me with outstretched hands.  Her mourning dress fell in graceful folds around her tall, queenly figure, and from the same dark dress her fair face and golden head shone out bright and luminous as a jewel from a dark background.

“Sir Edgar Trevelyan,” she said, “allow me to welcome you home.”

Her voice was sweet and rich; she had a pretty, piquant accent, and the play of her lips as she spoke was simply perfection.

“It is very lonely for you,” she said.  “There is great gloom over the house, it is all sad and dark; but the brightness will come back in time.”

I touched the white hand she held out to me; it was warm and soft; the touch of those slender fingers had a magical effect.

“I must apologize for not having seen you before,” I said, “but until five minutes ago I did not know you were in the house.”

“No,” she replied, with a faint sigh, “I can believe that.”

“You must know,” I continued, “that I am a complete stranger to the family.  I never saw any of them in my life.  I never heard the name more than five or six times.”