We had talked about her and wondered what she would be like.  I had always pictured her as a girl many years older than myself, but still a girl, with a certain consciousness and shyness about her.  I had expected that she would stand in awe of my mother at first, and be, perhaps, impressed with the grandeur of Tayne Abbey.  When the time came to say that Miss Reinhart would be glad to see Lady Tayne, and Sir Roland brought the strange lady into the room, I was silently in utter amaze.  This was no school-girl, no half-conscious, half-shy governess, impressed and awe-struck.  There floated, rather than walked, into the room a beautiful woman, with dark draperies falling gracefully around her, a beautiful, self-possessed woman, whose every motion was harmony.  She looked straight at my mother; one quick glance of her dark eyes seemed to take in every detail of the fair face and figure on the couch.  She held out her hand white as my mother’s own, and said: 

“I am grieved to find you so ill, Lady Tayne, I hope I may be of good service to you.”

“Thank you,” said my mother’s sweet voice, as their hands for one moment met.

Then the beautiful dark face turned to me.

“And this is my pupil,” she said.  “I hope we shall be good friends.”

I had an uneasy sense that she was patronizing us.  I looked across at my father.  He was watching her with keen admiration on his face.  I—­with a child’s keen instinct—­had drawn nearer to my mother, as though to protect her.  Then Sir Roland placed a chair for Miss Reinhart near my mother’s sofa.  She thanked him with a smile, and took it with the grace of a duchess.

Her manner was perfect.  To my mother, gentle and deferential; to my father, respectful, with just a dash of quiet independence; to me kind and loving.  Looking at her critically, it was almost impossible to find a finer woman—­her head was beautifully shaped, her hair raven black and smooth as satin, little ears like pretty pink shells, a beautiful face with dark, dreamy eyes, thick dark lashes, straight, dark brows, and a mouth that was, perhaps, the loveliest feature in her face.  It was not tragical beauty, either, but comfortable and comfort loving; there was a beautiful dimple in her white chin—­a wicked dimple, suggestive of fun and laughter; another, and even more beautiful dimple, deepened near her lips, and laughed when she laughed.  There was nothing of tragedy about her.

Very soon she was leading the conversation, telling us the details of her journey, but all in so humorous a fashion that it was quite irresistible.  Sir Roland laughed as I had never seen him laugh before, and my mother was much amused.  Any one looking on at the time would never have thought this was a governess undergoing a scrutiny, but rather a duchess trying to entertain her friends.

After some few minutes I saw my mother’s sweet face grow pale, and I knew that she felt tired.