sisters-in-law; no; she listened to Lady Sybil’s music, and regarded Lady Rosamund’s canvases, and even read the last MS. chapter of Lady Adela’s new novel (for that great work was now in progress) with a grave good-humor and even with a kind of benevolence; and it was only when one or the other of them, with unconscious simplicity, named herself in conjunction with some master of the art she was professing—­wondering how he could do such and such a thing in such and such a fashion when she found another method infinitely preferable—­it was only at such moments that occasionally Honnor Cunyngham’s clear hazel eyes would meet Lionel’s, and the question they obviously asked was “Is not that extraordinary?” They did not ask “Is not that absurd?” or “How can any one be so innocently and inordinately vain?” they only expressed a friendly surprise, with perhaps the smallest trace of demure amusement.

On the other hand, if Miss Cunyngham rather intimated to this young guest and stranger that, being at a shooting-lodge in the Highlands, he ought to devote himself to the healthful and vigorous recreations of the place, instead of dawdling away his time in drawing-room frivolities, it was not that she herself should take possession of him as her comrade on her salmon-fishing excursions.  He soon discovered that he was not to have any great encouragement in this direction.  She was always very kind to him, no doubt; and she had certainly proposed that, if he cared to go with her, he could take the wading portions of the pools; but beyond that she extended to him very little companionship, except what he made bold to claim.  And the fact is, he was rather piqued by the curious isolation in which this young lady appeared to hold herself.  She seemed so entirely content with herself, so wholly indifferent to the little attentions and flatteries of ordinary life, always good-natured when in the society of any one, she was just as satisfied to be left alone.  Now, Lionel Moore had not been used to this kind of treatment.  Women had been only too ready to smile when he approached; perhaps, indeed, familiar success had rendered him callous; at all events, he had managed to get along so far without encountering any violent experience of heart-aching desire and disappointment and despair.  But this young lady, with the clear, fine, intellectual face, the proud lips, the calm, observant eyes, puzzled him—­almost vexed him.  Nina, for example, was a far more sympathetic companion; either she was enthusiastically happy, talkative, vivacious, gay as a lark, or she was wilfully sullen and offended, to be coaxed round again and petted, like a spoiled child, until the natural sunshine of her humor came through those wayward clouds.  But Miss Cunyngham, while always friendly and pleasant, remained (as he thought) strangely remote, imperturbable, calm.  She did not seem to care about his society at all.  Perhaps she would rather have him go up the hill?—­though the birds were getting very wild now for a novice.  In any case, she could not refuse to let him accompany her on the morning after his deer-stalking expedition; for all the story had to be told her.