He had been away from town about a fortnight; but taken in relation with Miss Halliday, that fortnight seemed half a century.
Chrysanthemums and china-asters beautified Mr.Sheldon's neat little garden, and the plate-glass windows of his house shone with all their wonted radiance.

It was like the houses one sees framed and glazed in an auctioneer's office--the greenest imaginable grass, the bluest windows, the reddest bricks, the whitest stone.

"It is a house that would set my teeth on edge, but for the one sweet creature who lives in it," Valentine thought to himself, as he waited at the florid iron gate, which was painted a vivid ultramarine and picked out with gold.
He tried in vain to catch a glimpse of some feminine figure in the small suburban garden.

No flutter of scarlet petticoat or flash of scarlet plume revealed the presence of the divinity.
The prim maid-servant informed him that Mrs.Sheldon was at home, and asked if he would please to walk into the drawing-room.
Would he please?
Would he not have been pleased to walk into a raging furnace if there had been a chance of meeting Charlotte Halliday amid the flames?
He followed the maid-servant into Mrs.Sheldon's irreproachable apartment, where the show books upon the show table were ranged at the usual mathematically correct distances from one another, and where the speckless looking-glasses and all-pervading French polish imparted a chilly aspect to the chamber.

A newly-lighted fire was smouldering in the shining steel grate, and a solitary female figure was seated by the broad Tudor window bending over some needlework.
It was the figure of Diana Paget, and she was quite alone in the room.
Valentine's heart sank a little as he saw the solitary figure, and perceived that it was not the woman he loved.
Diana looked up from her work and recognised the visitor.