Adeline was the first to rise from her seat: something in another part of the room attracted her attention.
"Mary! look at this! a painting on the easel! and in progress! Grandmamma said M. d'Estival was away!"
Miss Carr turned her head, and in that glance, the first she had really bestowed on the apartment, thought its contents the most heterogeneous mass she had ever beheld. Adeline continued to look at the easel.
"There are touches here of a master's hand. It must be M. d'Estival. He paints beautifully. Many of these copies are by him. Or can it be an artist he has here?"
"Adeline, you have dropped your handkerchief," said Miss Carr, rising, and picking up one from the floor. She turned to its four corners. In the first three there was no name; in the last, not "A. L. de C.," as she expected, but, worked in hair, and surmounted by a crest, "Frederick St. John."
A presentiment of the truth flashed across her brain. A confused remembrance of a young man of noble presence, a French marigold, and Rose Darling's superstitious fears that he would exercise some blighting influence over her future life. She called to Adeline with breathless interest, and the latter came to her immediately, aroused by the tone.
"See this, Adeline!" pointing to the name. "It is neither yours nor mine."
Adeline read it quite indifferently.
"Don't you remember--on your ball-night--he with the French marigold?"
"Frederick St. John," said Adeline, carelessly, taking the handkerchief in her hand. "Yes, it is the same name. Probably the same person."