In her own eyes she was herself very plain, and she knew that her manner was often ungracious when she would most wish to be gracious.

She saw her face as the glass reflected it, but she did not see the changing play of expression which gave it its charm--the infinite pity, the sympathy, the sweet womanliness which drew towards her all who were in doubt and in trouble, even as poor slow-moving Charles Westmacott had been drawn to her that night.

She was herself, she thought, outside the pale of love.

But it was very different with Ida, merry, little, quick-witted, bright-faced Ida.

She was born for love.