She is reading in her dressing-room." Sybilla tapped at the dressing-room door, then turned the handle and entered.

It was an exquisite little _bijou_ of a chamber, with fluted walls of rose silk, and delicious plump beauties with bare shoulders and melting eyes, by Greuze.

A wood fire flickered on the marble hearth, and was flashed back from lofty mirrors as tall as the room.
Lying back in an arm-chair, her book fallen aimlessly on her lap, her dark, deep eyes looking straight before her into the evening gloaming, my lady sat alone.
The melancholy wash of the waves on the shore, the mournful sighing of the evening wind among the groaning trees, the monotonous ticking of a dainty buhl clock, and the light fall of the cinders sounded abnormally loud in the dead silence of the apartment.
Lady Kingsland turned round at the opening of the door, and her face hardened into that cold look it always wore at sight of her husband's brilliant protegee.
"I have been to the village, my lady," Sybilla said.

"I have seen Mr.
Parmalee.

He will be in the Beech Walk precisely at eight." My lady bent her head in cold acknowledgment.