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Florence felt relieved, and inclined to be amiable and patronising; which agreeable sensation increased when in Marion’s grey eyes she read evident admiration for herself. More than admiration. Marion’s first glance at Florence actually dazzled her. She had forgotten all about the existence of such a person as Miss Vyse, and had entered the room expecting to see only Lady Severn, when this radiant creature rose to greet her. In her gracious mood, Florence spoke courteously and kindly, yet with a certain inflection of condescension, some few words of apology for Lady Severn’s absence.

“My aunt was obliged to go out this morning,” she said; “she asked me to see you instead, and talk over a little the plans for my cousins’ lessons; the hours, and so on. So pray sit down, Miss Freer. Lady Severn may perhaps come in by the time I have given you a little idea of what she wishes.”

“Thank you,” said Marion. And as Miss Vyse seated herself gracefully, she thought again, “How very beautiful you are.” But, somehow, she did not think it quite in the same way since hearing Florence speak. Something in her voice repelled her. Not the tone of condescension, that was simply rather laughable; and irritating, perhaps, for the moment. It was no incidental inflection that she disliked. It was something in the voice itself: or, rather, it seemed to her something wanting in it. An absence, not of depth nor refinement, nor sweetness; of no one of these exactly, but of something including and yet surpassing them all. And, in a strange way, it seemed to her as if her immediate perception of a want in the voice revealed to her at the same moment an equally indefinable want in the whole being of the woman before her. And yet she was so beautiful! If only she had been a picture instead of a living being, Marion felt that she could have admired her with perfect satisfaction!