After that, the elder sister’s English home became naturally the right and fitting place for Vera to come to.  So she left her gay life and her lovers, her bright dresses and all that had hitherto seemed to her worth living for, and came back to her father’s country and took up her abode in Eustace Daintree’s quiet vicarage, where she became shortly her sister’s idol and her sister’s mother-in-law’s mortal foe.

And then it was that the worthy clergyman came to discover that to put three grown-up women into the same house, and to expect them to live together in peace and amity, is about as foolhardy an experiment as to shut up a bulldog, a parrot, and a tom-cat in a cupboard, and expect them to behave like so many lambs.

It is now rather more than a year since Vera Nevill came to live in her brother-in-law’s house.  Let me waste no further time, but introduce her to you at once.

The time of the year is October—­the time of day is five o’clock.  In the vicarage drawing-room the afternoon tea-table has just been set out, and the fire just lit, for it is chilly; but one of the long French windows leading into the garden is still open, and through it Vera steps into the room.

There is a background of brown and yellow foliage behind her, across the garden, all aglow with the crimson light of the western sky, against which the outlines of her figure, in its close-fitting dark dress, stand out clearly and distinctly.  Vera has the figure, not of a sylph, but of a goddess; it is the absolute perfection of the female form.  She is tall—­very tall, and she carries her head a little proudly, like a young queen conscious of her own power.

She comes in with a certain slow and languid grace in her movements, and pauses for an instant by the hearth, holding out her hand, that is white and well-shaped, though perhaps a trifle too long-fingered, to the warmth.

The glow of the newly-lit fire flickers up over her face—­her face, with its pure oval outlines, its delicate, regular features, and its dreamy eyes, that are neither blue nor gray nor hazel, but something vague and indistinctly beautiful, entirely peculiar to themselves.  Her hair, a soft dusky cloud, comes down low over her broad forehead, and is gathered up at the back in some strange and thoroughly un-English fashion that would not suit every one, yet that somehow makes a fitting crown to the stately young head it adorns.

“Tea, Vera?” says Marion, from behind the cups and saucers.

Old Mrs. Daintree sits darning socks, severely, by the fading light.  There is a sound of distant whimpering from the shadowy corner behind the piano; it is Tommy in disgrace.  Vera turns round; Marion’s kind face looks troubled and distressed; the old lady compresses her lips firmly and savagely.

Vera takes the cup from her sister’s hands, and putting it down again on the table, proceeds to cut a slice of bread from the loaf, and to spread it thickly with strawberry jam.