Sybil sat alone in her boudoir. It was yet early in the evening, but, feeling little inclined to remain in the society of her family, who assembled, with all due formality, in the drawing room on “at home” evenings, and most of their evenings were spent at home now, she had withdrawn, pleading fatigue after their drive.
The night outside was balmy enough, but Sybil had ordered a light fire in the grate, and she sat before it with all the rays from a fully illuminated chandelier falling directly over her.
She still wore the rich dress she had put on for her drive; and excitement, exercise, something, had lent an unusual glow to her cheeks, and caused her dusky eyes to shine clear and steady, almost too clear, too steadfast, was their gaze as it was fixed upon the glowing coals; she had no
