She had not been there long when another customer entered, seeming to be a young gentleman of good rank or estate, richly attired, somewhat in the fashion of Spain, and sat down at a table facing the door, so that he could observe those who came in.
The light was not good, but Venetia observed that he had a face in which youth and beauty were so securely enthroned that Time itself might appear unequal to their defeat. “I could be,” she thought, with a degree of truth which would have surprised herself, “as good a man, were I but pranked in the same style,” though she would not have said that green velvet would be the colour for her.
The young gentleman did not appear as one who had come there to drink, or to sit at ease, but watched the door, as for an expected friend, the while Venetia
