She had a face fair as a summer's morning, radiant with youth and happiness.
Greuze might have painted her and immortalized her.

She had a delicate color that was like the faint flush one sees inside a rose.

She had eyes of the same beautiful blue as the purple heartsease, and great masses of golden-brown hair that fell in rich waves on her neck and shoulders.
She was patrician from the crown of her dainty head to the little feet; the slender, girlish figure was full of grace and symmetry, the white, rounded throat and beautiful shoulders were fit models for a sculptor.
She had pretty white hands, with a soft, rose-leaf flush on the fingers.
She was a lovely girl, fair, high-bred and elegant, and she gave promise of a most superb and magnificent womanhood.

Such was Marion Arleigh on this June evening.

The young man by her side was handsome after a certain style; the impression his face left upon every one was that he was not to be trusted; his dark eyes were not frank and clear, the thin lips were shrewd, with lines about them that betokened cruelty; it was a face from which children shrank instinctively, and women as a rule did not love.