Oh! divine passion, that can thus glorify its object.  It is like a dash of sunshine over a winter landscape, which transforms it into the loveliness of spring; or the magic brush of the painter, which can turn a ploughed field and a barren common into the golden glories of a Cuyp or a Turner.

Thus it was with Herbert Pryme.  He looked at Beatrice with the blinding glamour of his own love in his eyes, and she was beautiful to him.  Truth to say, Beatrice was a woman whom to love once was to love always.  There was so much that was charming and loveable in her character, so great a freshness of mind and soul about her, that, although from lack of beauty she had hitherto failed to attract love, having once secured it, she possessed that rare and valuable faculty of being able to retain it, which many women, even those who are the most beautiful, are incapable of.

“It is just as I imagined about Mr. Nethercliff,” says Beatrice, laughing; “he has been asked here for my benefit.  Mamma has just been telling me about him; he is Lord Garford’s nephew and his heir.  Lord Garford’s place, you know, is quite the other side of the county; he is poor, so I suppose I might do for him,” with a little grimace.  “At all events, I am to sit next to him at dinner to-night, and make myself civil.  You see, I am to be offered to all the county magnates in succession.”

Herbert Pryme still holds her hands, and looks down with grave vexation into her face.

“And how do you suppose I shall feel whilst Mr. Nethercliff is making love to you?”

“You may make your mind quite easy; it is impossible that there should be another man foolish enough in all England to want to make love to such an ‘ugly duckling’ as I am!”

“Don’t be silly, child, and don’t fish for compliments,” he answers, fondly, stroking her short dark hair, which he thinks so characteristic of herself.

Beatrice looks up happily at him.  A woman is always at her very best when she is alone with the man she loves.  Unconsciously, all the charms she possesses are displayed in her glistening eyes, and in the colour which comes and goes in her contented face.  There is no philtre which beauty can use, there is neither cosmetic nor rouge that can give that tender, lovely glow with which successful love transforms even a plain face into radiance and fascination.

“I wish, Beatrice, you would let me speak to your father,” continued Herbert; “I cannot bear to be here under false pretences.  Why will you not let me deal fairly and openly with your parents?”

“And be sent about your business by the evening train.  No, thank you!  My dear boy, speaking to papa would be as much use as speaking to the butler; they would both of them refer you instantly to mamma; and with an equally lamentable result.  Please leave things to me.  When mamma has offered me ineffectually to every marriageable man in Meadowshire, she will get quite sick of it, and, I dare say, I shall be allowed to do as I like then without any more fuss.”