That night as Clare was going to bed, she stood before Lady Crosbie’s picture. She noted the pearls in the hair, the laughing eyes, the flying grace of movement.
Had all this light-heartedness, all this beauty become (to borrow one of Mrs. Inchbald’s crisp sayings) long since dust and daisies?
“Not while this picture lasts,” thought Clare. “With this before us, Beauty, like stone-built London Bridge, may last for ages.”
CHAPTER XXVII
One I have marked, the happiest guest
In all this covert of the best:
Hail to thee, far above the rest
In joy of voice and pinion!
Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,