A FAMILY CONCLAVE At eleven o'clock on Wednesday morning Beatrice called at the Athels' house.

Receiving the expected information that Wilfrid was not at home, she requested that Mr.Athel senior might not be disturbed and went to Wilfrid's study.
Alone in the room, she took from her hand-bag a little packet addressed to Wilfrid on which she had written the word 'private,' and laid it on the writing-table.
She appeared to have given special attention to her toilet this morning; her attire was that of a lady of fashion, rich, elaborate, devised with consummate art, its luxury draping well the superb form wherein blended with such strange ardour the flames of heroism and voluptuousness.

Her moving made the air delicate with faint perfume; her attitude as she laid down the packet and kept her hand upon it for a moment was self-conscious, but nobly so; if an actress, she was cast by nature for the great parts and threw her soul into the playing of them.
She lingered by the table, touching objects with the tips of her gloved fingers, as if lovingly and sadly; at length she seated herself in Wilfrid's chair and gazed about the room with languid, wistful eyes.

Her bosom heaved; once or twice a sigh trembled to all but a sob.

She lost herself in reverie.