"Cheek of rose and brow of pearl,
Shadowed by many a golden curl,"
with dark eyes radiating light beneath the drooping, ebon lashes, with neck and arms moulded like the gleaming white marble of a sculptor's masterpiece, and guiltless of all adornment; with that silvery robe sweeping about the stately form as if the mist of the sea had enveloped her, Lady Vera looks and moves "a queen," gracious, lovely, smiling, as if the shadow of a great despair were not brooding over that golden head.
"Not a jewel, scarcely a flower, and yet more perfect than an artist's dream," Mrs. Cleveland whispers maliciously to her overbearing daughter.
But Ivy forgets to be angry at the little thrust. She stares at the beautiful vision, pale to the very lips.
"Leslie was right," she murmurs, like one dazed. "She frightens me, she is so like—so like that dead girl, Vera. Do you not see it, mamma?"
"Yes, but why should a mere chance likeness frighten you?" Mrs. Cleveland retorts, with subdued scorn.
Lady Vera has not seen her enemies yet. A group of admirers has closed around her, and for a little while she forgets that she will meet here the heartless and vindictive woman who destroyed the happiness of her parents. Her lover claims her hand for the dance, and she passes from their sight a little space.
Colonel Lockhart is radiant with joy and pride. The hum of admiration that follows his darling everywhere is music in his ears.
"My darling, do you see how every eye follows you?" he whispers, fondly.
But Lady Vera laughs archly in the happiness of her heart.