The opening of the door caused her to turn her head, and she shook her ringlets into their proper place, and dropped her hands by her side, at the entrance of Lionel Verner.
"Oh, Lionel! is it you ?" said she, with as much composure as if she had not been caught gazing at herself.

"I was looking at this," pointing to an inverted tumbler on the mantel-piece.

"Is it not strange that we should see a moth at this cold season?
Amilly found it this afternoon on the geraniums." Lionel Verner advanced and bent his head to look at the pretty speckled moth reposing so still on its green leaf.

Did he see through the artifice?
Did he suspect that the young lady had been admiring her own pretty face, and not the moth?
Not he.

Lionel's whole heart had long ago been given to that vain butterfly, Sibylla West, who was gay and fluttering, and really of little more use in life than the moth.