"All that is not difficult," said Miss Lorraine. "I will speak to some of my friends on the subject to-morrow. But you must give the lectures, Mr. Glynne. I will only move in the matter on that condition."
But Mr. Glynne would make no promise, though he appeared not unwilling to fill the post of lecturer if he found that his other engagements would permit him to do so. He sat talking to Miss Lorraine and her niece till long after it grew dusk, and when at last he walked away to his lodgings, there was no fear of any one's seeing the patch upon his temple.
The day's incident had given a brighter colour to the prospect of his sojourn at Woodham. Already he had made friends in the little town, and he felt sure that its inhabitants were simple-hearted, good-natured people, acquaintance with whom could yield only pleasure.
As for Aldyth, after he had gone, she awoke to the fact that she had quite forgotten the long letter to her mother which should have been finished that evening.
[CHAPTER III.]
GUY LORRAINE.
ALDYTH rose early the next morning, that her letter might be finished and posted ere the morning mail went out. The clock had not long struck seven, when she threw wide her casement, and let in the fresh, delicious air. Birds were chirping beneath the eaves, and fluttering to and fro; the dewy grass was sparkling in the sun, and the garden looked most tempting; but Aldyth turned resolutely from the window, and seated herself at her writing-table.
One may often gain insight into a girl's character by a glance round her room. Aldyth's room, in which she took some pride, as girls do in a place that is their very own, revealed that she had a refined and cultured mind. There was nothing luxurious in its arrangements, but it was a pretty room despite the disadvantage, that, owing to the old-fashioned construction of the house, the ceiling sloped sharply on one side. Flowers stood in glasses on the dressing-table, and bees were buzzing over the mignonette planted in a box on the window sill.
Water-colour drawings adorned the walls, some of them painted by Aldyth, and some the gifts of school friends, and here and there were photographs Of Aldyth's favourite heroes—Carlyle, Ruskin, and Charles Kingsley, Tennyson, and Browning. The little wooden bookcase held a selection of books any girl might be proud to possess. There were daintily-bound editions of all our greatest poets, with some of our noblest works of fiction, and standard works of prose, too, showing that Aldyth did not read for mere entertainment, though in reading she found one of the highest pleasures of her life. For Aldyth loved books; she stinted herself of many of the pretty things girls love, that she might spend her pocket money on books, and at any time a bookshop had more attraction for her than a milliner's.
In a handsome frame on the mantelshelf stood the latest portrait of her mother which Aldyth had received. A similar one, reduced in size, Aldyth wore constantly in a gold locket, suspended by a slender chain from her neck. It was the photograph of a lady who might have been thirty years of age, but looked no older, with a beautiful face, faultless in form and feature, and luxuriant masses of hair dressed high on the crown of the head, after the fashion of the day. The pose of the head was queenly, the exquisite lips had a somewhat disdainful curl, as though conscious of their beauty. It was a face which demanded admiration; whether it would as readily call forth love, the portrait did not reveal. It is never safe to judge a person from a photograph.