My Lady Kingsland's maternal frowns, my Lady Louise's imperial scorn--all were forgotten.

She was a madcap and a hoiden--a wild, hare-brained, fox-hunting Amazon--all that was shocking and unwomanly, but, at the same time, all that was bright, beautiful, entrancing, irresistible.

His golden-haired ideal, with the azure eyes and seraphic smile was forgotten, and this gray-eyed enchantress, robed in white, crowned with ivy, dancing desperately the whole night long, set brain and heart reeling in the mad tarantella of love.
It was over at last.

The gray and dismal dawn of the November morning stole chilly through the curtained casements.

A half-blown rose from Miss Hunsden's bouquet bloomed in Sir Everard's button-hole, and it was Sir Everard's blissful privilege to fold Miss Hunsden's furred mantle around those pearly shoulders.
The bleak morning breeze blew her perfumed hair across his eyes, as she leaned on his arm and he handed her into the carriage.
"We shall expect to see you at Hunsden Hall," the Indian officer said, heartily.