for all beauty; not failing, however, to show wherein weakness crept; where grace of countenance oft screened defect of character.  Indeed this maid was one of Janet’s own creation, save in flesh and blood, and no one knew any better than she, herself, the vanity to rout the faults and frailties inherited.  She strove the harder to overthrow such imperfections by perfecting and cultivating the maid’s receptive mood.  She was ever fencing with her in words, working out in detail exchange of thought wherein Katherine might, if ’twere in her, make a clever reply.  At times Mistress Penwick would pick up such threads of Janet’s teaching as would bring her to a semblance of conscience of present environment, and she would see in a vague way the right and wrong of things.  For the moment she would read all in Cantemir’s handsome face that it masqued and would turn from it only to become lost in contemplation of what life would be if she were free from Cedric’s guardianship, never thinking of the greater bondage of espousing a knave.  Ever and anon her eyes sought the young lord of the castle, forgetting she was his ward—­and there would come to her such a feeling of overwhelming conviction she was for the moment submerged in ecstasy, and with the hot blush still upon her face she would flee from him as if he were an evil tempter.  He brought her near to that great unknown, upon whose threshold she stood trembling and expectant, eager to know what was before her.  And so, not understanding her own mind, and being of such tender years, drifted along with the tide that was carrying her to destruction.  Her mind was set upon her own way, and sheer perversity deigned not to let her see the hands stretched toward her.

The afternoon sun fell aslant the black oak parquetry where sat her Grace of Ellswold, Lady Constance and Mistress Penwick, engaged with limning and embroidery.  Lord Cedric and Sir Julian entered, attired in the most modish foppery of the time.  The latter was saying, as he soundly rapped his pouncet-box,—­

“His demeanour is too provincial, too provincial—­ah!”—­and he bent low with grave formality to Mistress Penwick as Cedric presented him; then turning to the duchess continued,—­“I was saying, your Grace, that Dryden is provincial in his demeanour, when compared to his Grace of Buckingham.”

“Indeed, Julian, thou dost speak lightly of such gigantic genius; beside, ’twould not be fair to compare sun and moon; and how could we do without either the one or the other?”

“To which dost thou comparison his Grace?”

“The moon, of course!” said the Duchess.

“And to what planet is my lord a satellite?”

“Nay, I know not; thou dost question of one who knows little of astronomy; but I think perhaps Mars, as the planet doth resemble earth more closely than any other.”

“Bravo, ’tis a rare simile; and I take it thou didst speak in derogation;—­no matter how true the inuendo, it is ever the material we most appreciate and enjoy, and the sun being nearly ninety-three million miles from the earth, ’tis too remote to be interesting.”