She went back to her sumptuous bedroom that she had left half an hour ago, so calm and serene, so unconscious of coming evil.

Looking in the mirror, she saw her face was deadly pale--there was no trace of color left on it, and deep lines had come on her brow that had been so calm.
"It will not do to look so pale," said Lady Carruthers; and from one of the mysterious little drawers she took a small powder puff that soon remedied the evil.
Then she went to the dining-room.

Miss Hautville and Mr.Forster were talking together like old acquaintances, and the three sat down to dinner together.
Mr.Forster was, as he himself often said, a grim old lawyer, without any poetry or romance, but even he could not sit opposite the pale, pure loveliness of Marion Hautville unmoved; there was something about her that reminded one irresistibly of starlight, delicate, graceful, holy veiled loveliness.

She was slender and graceful, with a figure that was charming now, but that promised, in years to come, to be superb; the same promise of magnificent womanhood was in the lovely delicate face.
The pure profile, the delicate brows, the shining hair, braided Madonna fashion, were all beautiful, but looking at her, one realized there was greater beauty to come.
She looked across the table with a smile.
"And now, Mr.Forster, you have told me how London looks; tell me something about my cousin, Mr.Carruthers." He made some indifferent answer, and as he did so, he thought to himself: "Can it be possible, that with a chance of winning this lovely girl--one of the richest heiresses in London--that Basil Carruthers has given his heart to some worthless creature, who has spent his money and helped him to prison ?" A question that, if our readers will kindly follow us, we will answer in the succeeding chapters..