But Ronald was a true artist, and one of no mean skill.

He thought of that pure Grecian face as he would have thought of a beautiful picture or an exquisite statue.

He never thought of the loving, sensitive woman's heart hidden under it.
It was not difficult when dinner was over to open the grand piano for Valentine, to fetch her music, and listen while she talked of operas he had never heard.

It was pleasant to watch her as she sat in the evening gloaming, her superb beauty enhanced by the delicate evening dress of fine white lace; the shapely shoulders were polished and white, the exquisite arms rounded and clasped by a bracelet of pearls.
She wore a rose in the bodice of her dress, and, as Ronald bent over the music she was showing him the sweet, subtle perfume came to him like a message from Dora.
Valentine Charteris had one charm even greater than her beauty.

She talked well and gracefully--the play of her features, the movement of her lips, were something not to be forgotten; and her smile seemed to break like a sunbeam over her whole face--it was irresistible.
Poor Ronald stood by her, watching the expression that seemed to change with every word; listening to pretty polished language that was in itself a charm.