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"If
she had ever loved him, I might have forgiven her," she thought, "but
she cared for him as little as she cares for Gideon Vetch to-day. It was
vanity then, and it is vanity now. You cannot hurt her heart--only her
pride--"
Her father called from the stairs; and with a last swift glance at her
image, she caught up a fan of ostrich plumes and a wrap of peacock-blue
velvet. She had never looked more brilliant in her life, not even on
that June morning twenty-five years ago, when, coloured like a rose, she
had been married to Kent Page beneath a bower of roses. She had lost
much since then, freshness, innocence, the trusting heart and the
transparent gaze, but she had lost neither charm nor radiance.
"So we are invited to meet Gideon Vetch," remarked the Judge as they
went down the steps; and from the whimsical sound of his voice, she knew
that there was a smile on his face. The house, with its picturesque
English front half hidden by Virginia creeper, stood at the end of a
long avenue, in the centre of a broad lawn planted in fine old elms.


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