"Well, Cyril, what do you think of her?" Beatrix asked him eagerly, as soon as she found a chance to hang upon his arm apart from the rest.
He looked fondly down into the fair face.
"You must not be jealous of my opinion, my darling," he said. "Of course you are the sweetest, fairest woman on earth to me. But Mrs. Lynn is the most beautiful as well as the most gifted one I ever met."
It was eloquent praise, but somehow Beatrix looked disappointed. He read it plainly on the fair mobile face.
"Is there anything more that I ought to say about your favorite?" he inquired, laughingly.
"Have you, indeed, no more to say about her?" she returned wistfully.
"Yes, there is something else—only I am afraid you will laugh at the fancy, dear," said Cyril Wentworth, with a masculine dread of ridicule.
"No, I will not laugh at you. Tell me," said Beatrix, anxiously.
"I am not at all sure you will not laugh," he said, "but I will tell you the truth. Although I have never seen any one quite so lovely as your Mrs. Lynn, yet she recalls to my mind some one else whom I have met—indeed Beatrix, the resemblance is simply marvelous," he exclaimed, glancing across to where the lovely authoress stood conversing with Mr. Gordon.