The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. Fine woman, Lady Trafford—a little on the wane though. A young man, who had been spending the last hour walking up and down on the opposite side of the way, came quickly over to her. “There are some people,” he said at last, “who seem fated to carry on their shoulders the burdens of other people. Her mother informed her of the betrothal on the first painful day of her menarche, shortly after her eleventh birthday. He was carelessly dressed, and there were marks of unrest upon his features. "Why were you afraid to show me this picture, Winny?" asked the youth. I have a new cult to teach, a new enthusiasm.
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