and clear—­so clear that the eye following for a hundred yards the lines of the cove could see the feet of the cliffs where they rested, three fathoms down, on lily-white sand.  Miss Bracy adored these clean depths.  She had missed much that life could have given; but at least she had found a life comely and to her mind.  She had sacrificed much; but at times she forgot how much in contemplating the modest elegance of the altar.

She wore, this evening, a gown of purplish silk, with a light cashmere scarf about her shoulders.  Nothing could make her a tall woman; but her grey hair, dressed high a l’imperatrice, gave her dignity at least, and an air of old-fashioned distinction.  And she was one of those few and fortunate ladies who never need to worry about the appearance of their cavaliers.  Mr. Frank—­six feet of him, without reckoning a slight stoop—­always satisfied the eye; his grey flannel suit fitted loosely but fitted well; his wide-brimmed straw hat was as faultless as his linen; his necktie had a negligent neatness; you felt sure alike and at once of his bootmaker and his shirtmaker; and his fresh complexion, his prematurely white hair, his strong well-kept hands, completed the impression of cleanliness for its own sake, of a careful physical cult as far as possible removed from foppery.

This may have been in Miss Bracy’s mind when she began:  “I daresay he will be fairly presentable, to look at.  That unfortunate woman had at least an art of dressing—­a quiet taste too, quite extraordinary in one of her station.  I often wondered where she picked it up.”

Mr. Frank winced.  Until the news of his wife’s death came, a fortnight ago, her name had not been spoken between them for years.  That he and his cousin regarded her very differently he knew; but while silence was kept it had been possible to ignore the difference.  Now it surprised him that speech should hurt so; and, at the same moment, that his cousin should not divine how sorely it hurt.  After all he was the saddest evidence of poor Bassett’s “lady-like” tastes.

“I suppose you know nothing of the school she sent him to?” Miss Bracy went on—­“King William’s, or whatever it is.”

“King Edward’s,” Mr. Frank corrected.  “Yes, I made inquiries about it at the time—­ten years ago.  People speak well of it.  Not a public school, of course—­at least, not quite; the line isn’t so easy to draw nowadays—­but it turns out gentlemen.”

In her heart Miss Bracy thought him too hopeful; but she said, “He wrote a becoming letter—­his hand, by the way, curiously suggests yours; it was quite a nice letter, and agreeably surprised me.  I shouldn’t wonder if his headmaster had helped him with it and cut out the boyish heroics; for of course she must have taught him to hate us.”

“My dear Laura, why in the world—­” began Mr. Frank testily.

“Oh, she had spirit!”—­the encounter of long ago rose up in Miss Bracy’s memory, and she nodded her head with conviction.  “Like most of the quiet ones, she had spirit.  You don’t suppose, I imagine, that she forgave?”