sun had gilded every hair with its radiance.  In all my life I had never seen anything so beautiful as this tall girl’s hair.  Still, it was the Vernon red.  My cousin, Sir George, and many Vernons had hair of the same color.  Yet the girl’s hair differed from all other I had ever seen.  It had a light and a lustre of its own which was as distinct from the ordinary Vernon red, although that is very good and we are proud of it, as the sheen of gold is from the glitter of brass.  I knew by the girl’s hair that she was my cousin, Dorothy Vernon, whom I reluctantly had come to wed.

I asked myself, “Can this be the plain, freckled girl I knew seven years ago?” Compared with her beauty even Mary Stuart’s was pale as the vapid moon at dawn.  The girl seemed to be the incarnated spirit of universal life and light, and I had condescendingly come to marry this goddess.  I felt a dash of contemptuous pity for my complacent self.

In my cogitations concerning marriage with Dorothy Vernon, I had not at all taken into consideration her personal inclination.  A girl, after all, is but the chattel of her father, and must, perforce, if needs be, marry the man who is chosen for her.  But leaving parental authority out of the question, a girl with brick-red hair and a multitude of freckles need not be considered when an agreeable, handsome man offers himself as a husband.  She usually is willing to the point of eagerness.  That is the manner in which I had thought about Dorothy Vernon, if I considered her at all.  But when a man is about to offer himself to a goddess, he is apt to pause.  In such a case there are always two sides to the question, and nine chances to one the goddess will coolly take possession of both.  When I saw Dorothy in the courtyard of The Peacock, I instantly knew that she was a girl to be taken into account in all matters wherein she was personally concerned.  Her every feature, every poise and gesture, unconsciously bore the stamp of “I will” or “I will not.”

Walking by Dorothy’s side, holding her hand, was a fair young woman whose hair was black, and whose skin was of the white, clear complexion such as we see in the faces of nuns.  She walked with a hesitating, cautious step, and clung to Dorothy, who was gentle and attentive to her.  But of this fair, pale girl I have so much to say in the pages to come that I shall not further describe her here.

When the ladies had entered the inn, my companion and I dismounted, and Manners exclaimed:—­

“Did you see the glorious girl who but now entered the inn door?  Gods!  I never before saw such beauty.”

“Yes,” I replied, “I know her.”

“How fortunate I am,” said Sir John.  “Perhaps I may induce you to present me to her.  At least you will tell me her name, that I may seek her acquaintance by the usual means.  I am not susceptible, but by my faith, I—­I—­she looked at me from the door-steps, and when I caught her eyes it seemed—­that is, I saw—­or I felt a stream of burning life enter my soul, and—­but you will think I am a fool.  I know I am a fool.  But I feel as if I were—­as if I had been bewitched in one little second of time, and by a single glance from a pair of brown eyes.  You certainly will think I am a fool, but you cannot understand—­”