Gratified ambition—­flattered vanity—­the joy of success—­all this she feels to the full; but nothing more!  There is not one single other sensation within her.  Her pulses have not quickened, ever so little, as she read her lover’s letter; her heart has not throbbed, even once, with a sweeter, purer delight—­such as she has read and heard that other women have felt.

“I suppose I have no heart,” said Vera to herself; “it must be that I am cold by nature.  I am happy; but—­but—­I wonder what it feels like—­this love—­that there is so much talked and written about?”

And then Marion came in breathlessly.

“Oh, Vera, what is it?”

Vera turns round to her, smiling serenely, and places the note in her hands.

This is what Sir John Kynaston has written:—­

“Dear Miss Nevill,—­I do not think what I am about to say will be altogether unexpected by you.  You must have surely guessed how sincere an affection I have learnt to feel for you.  I know that I am unworthy of you, and I am conscious of how vast a disparity there is between my age and your own youth and beauty.  But if my great love and devotion can in any way bridge over the gap that lies between us, believe me, that if you will consent to be my wife, my whole life shall be devoted to making you happy.  If you can give me an answer to-day, I shall be very grateful, as suspense is hard to bear.  But pray do not decide against me in haste, and without giving me every chance in your power.

  “Yours devotedly,
  “John Kynaston.”

“Oh!  Vera, my darling sister, I am so glad!” cries Marion, in tearful delight, throwing her arms up round the neck of the young sister, who is so much taller than she is; “I had guessed it, dearest; I saw he was in love with you; and oh, Vera, I shall have you always near me!”

“Yes, that will be nice,” assents Vera, quietly, and a trifle absently, stroking her sister’s cheek, with her eyes still fixed on the fire; “and of course,” rousing herself with an effort, “of course I am a very lucky woman.”

And then Mr. Daintree came in, and his wife rushed to him rapturously to impart the joyful news.  There was a little pleasant confusion of broken words and explanations between the three, and then Marion whisked away, brimming over with triumphant delight to wave the flags of victory exultingly in her mother-in-law’s face.

Eustace Daintree and Vera were alone.  He took her hands within his, and looked steadfastly in her face.

“Vera, are you sure of yourself, my dear, in this matter?”

Her eyes met his for a moment, and then fell before his earnest gaze.  She coloured a little.

“I am quite sure that I mean to accept Sir John’s proposal,” she said, with a little uneasy laugh.

“Child, do you love him?”

Her eyes met his again; there was a vague trouble in them.  The man had a power over her, the power of sheer goodness of soul.  She could never be untrue to herself with Eustace Daintree; she was always at her very best with him, humble and gentle; and she could no more have told him a lie, or put him off with vague conventionalities, than she could have committed a deadly sin.