CHAPTER VII.
Eugenie, are you there ?' 'Yes, papa.' Lord Findon, peering short-sightedly into the big drawing-room, obstructed by much furniture and darkened by many pictures, had not at first perceived the slender form of his daughter.

The April day was receding, and Eugenie de Pastourelles was sitting very still, her hands lightly clasped upon a letter which lay outspread upon her lap.
These moments of pensive abstraction were characteristic of her.

Her life was turned within; she lived more truly in thought than in speech or action.
Lord Findon came in gaily.

'I say, Eugenie, that fellow's made a hit.' 'What fellow, papa ?' 'Why, Fenwick, of course.

Give me a cup of tea, there's a dear.