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met Mrs. Osmond coming out of the deep doorway. She was
dressed in black velvet; she looked high and splendid, as he
had said, and yet oh so radiantly gentle! We know what Mr.
Rosier thought of her and the terms in which, to Madame
Merle, he had expressed his admiration. Like his apprecia-
tion of her dear little stepdaughter it was based partly on
his eye for decorative character, his instinct for authenticity;
but also on a sense for uncatalogued values, for that secret
of a ‘lustre’ beyond any recorded losing or rediscovering,
which his devotion to brittle wares had still not disquali-
fied him to recognize. Mrs. Osmond, at present, might well
have gratified such tastes. The years had touched her only
to enrich her; the flower of her youth had not faded, it only
hung more quietly on its stem. She had lost something of
that quick eagerness to which her husband had privately
taken exception-she had more the air of being able to wait.
Now, at all events, framed in the gilded doorway, she struck
our young man as the picture of a gracious lady. ‘You see I’m
very regular,’ he said. ‘But who should be if I’m not?’
‘Yes, I’ve known you longer than any one here. But we
mustn’t indulge in tender reminiscences. I want to intro-
duce you to a young lady.’
‘Ah, please, what young lady?’ Rosier was immensely
obliging; but this was not what he had come for.
‘She sits there by the fire in pink and has no one to speak
to.’
Rosier hesitated a moment. ‘Can’t Mr. Osmond speak to
her? He’s within six feet of her.’
Mrs. Osmond also hesitated. ‘She’s not very lively, and be

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