Violet Effingham was very pretty, but could hardly be said to be beautiful.

She was small, with light crispy hair, which seemed to be ever on the flutter round her brows, and which yet was never a hair astray.

She had sweet, soft grey eyes, which never looked at you long, hardly for a moment,--but which yet, in that half moment, nearly killed you by the power of their sweetness.

Her cheek was the softest thing in nature, and the colour of it, when its colour was fixed enough to be told, was a shade of pink so faint and creamy that you would hardly dare to call it by its name.

Her mouth was perfect, not small enough to give that expression of silliness which is so common, but almost divine, with the temptation of its full, rich, ruby lips.