The cousins were almost of an age, of much the same stature; but Olga had a pallid tint, tawny hair, and bluish eyes, whilst Irene’s was a warm complexion, her hair of dark-brown, and her eyes of hazel.  As efficient human beings, there could be no comparison between them; Olga looked frail, despondent, inclined to sullenness, whilst Irene impressed one as in perfect health, abounding in gay vitality, infinite in helpful resource.  Straight as an arrow, her shoulders the perfect curve, bosom and hips full-moulded to the ideal of ripe girlhood, she could not make a gesture which was not graceful, nor change her position without revealing a new excellence of form.  Yet a certain taste would have leant towards Miss Hannaford, whose traits had more mystery; as an uncommon type, she gained by this juxtaposition.  Miss Derwent, despite her larger experience of the world, her vastly better education, was a much younger person than Olga; she had an occasional naivete unknown to her cousin; her sex was far less developed.  To the average man, Olga’s proximity would have been troubling, whereas Irene’s would simply have given delight.

During the excitement of the arrival, and through the cheerful meal which followed, Eustace Derwent maintained a certain reserve, was always rather in the background.  This implied no defect of decent sentiment; the young man—­he was four-and-twenty—­could not regard his aunt and cousin with any fond emotion, but he did not dislike them, and was willing to credit them with all the excellent qualities perceived by Irene, wondering merely how his father’s sister, a member of the Derwent family, could have married such a “doubtful customer” as Lee Hannaford.  Eustace never became demonstrative; he had in perfection the repose of a self-conscious, delicately bred, and highly trained Englishman.  In a day of democratisation, he supported the ancient fame of the University which fostered gentlemen.  Balliol was his College.  His respect for that name, and his reverence for the great master who ruled there, were not inconsistent with a private feeling that, whatever he might owe to Balliol, Balliol in turn lay under a certain obligation to him.  His academic record had no brilliancy; he aimed at nothing of the kind, knowing his limltations—­or rather his distinctions; but he was quietly conscious that no graduate of his year better understood the niceties of decorum, more creditably represented the tone of that famous school of manners.

Eustace Derwent was in fact a thoroughly clear-minded and well-meaning young man; sensitive as to his honour; ambitious of such social advancement as would illustrate his name; unaffectedly attached to those of his own blood, and anxious to fulfil with entire propriety all the recognised duties of life.  He was intelligent, with originality; he was good-natured without shadow of boisterous impulse.  In countenance he strongly resembled his mother, who had been a very handsome