The spray of the little scented fountain sparkled in the sun.

Every one agreed that there was no other room in London like the grand drawing-room at Verdun House.
There was something on that bright May afternoon more beautiful even than the flowers, the fountains, the bright-plumaged birds in their handsome cages, the white statues, or the pictures; that was the mistress and queen of all this magnificence, Philippa L'Estrange.

She was reclining on a couch that had been sent from Paris--a couch made of finest ebony, and covered with pale, rose-colored velvet.

If Titian or Velasquez had seen her as she lay there, the world would have been the richer by an immortal work of art; Titian alone could have reproduced those rich, marvelous colors; that perfect, queenly beauty.

He would have painted the picture, and the world would have raved about its beauty.