To all the rest of the world the Countess was marble, but to Lesbia she was wax.

Lesbia could mould her as she pleased; but happily Lesbia was not the kind of young person to take advantage of this privilege; she was thoroughly ductile or docile, and had no desire, at present, which ran counter to her grandmother.
Lesbia was a beauty.

In her nineteenth year she was a curious reproduction in face and figure, expression and carriage, of that Lady Diana Angersthorpe who five and forty years ago fluttered the dove-cots of St.James's and Mayfair by her brilliant beauty and her keen intelligence.

There in the panelled drawing-room at Fellside hung Harlow's portrait of Lady Diana in her zenith, in a short-waisted, white satin frock, with large puffed gauze sleeves, through which the perfect arm showed dimly.

Standing under that picture Lady Lesbia looked as if she had stepped out of the canvas.