Everyone present, however, on the night of the last dinner-party she gave to her London guests, was bound to admit that a sweeter, fairer creature than its present mistress never trod the old oaken floors of Abbot’s Manor; and that even the radiant pictured beauty of ’Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt,’ to whom no doubt many a time the Merry Monarch had doffed his plumed hat in salutation, paled and grew dim before the living rose of Maryllia’s dainty loveliness and the magnetic tenderness of Maryllia’s eyes.  Something of the exquisite pensiveness of her mother’s countenance, as portrayed in the long hidden picture which was now one of the gems of the Manor gallery, seemed to soften the outline of her features, and deepen the character and play of the varying expression which made her so fascinating to those who look for the soul in a woman’s face, rather than its mere physical form.  Lady Beaulyon, beautiful though she was, owed something to art; but Maryllia was nature’s own untouched product, and everything about her exhaled freshness, sweetness, and radiant vitality.  Roxmouth, entering ‘most carefully upon his hour,’ namely at a quarter to eight o’clock, found her singularly attractive,—­more so, he thought, than he had ever before realised.  The stately old-world setting of Abbot’s Manor suited her—­the dark oak panelling,—­the Flemish tapestries, the worn shields and scutcheons, the old banners and armorial bearings,—­all the numerous touches of the past which spoke of chivalry, ancestral pride and loyalty to great traditions, lent grace and colouring to the picture she herself made, as she received her guests with that sweet kindness, ease and distinction, which are the heritage of race and breeding.

“Pretty little shrew!” he said, in an aside to Marius Longford—­“She is really charming,—­and I begin to think I want her as much for herself as for her aunt’s millions!”

Longford smiled obsequiously.

“There is a certain air of originality, or shall we say individuality, about the lady,”—­he observed, with a critical, not to say insolent stare in Maryllia’s direction,—­“The French term ‘beaute du diable’ expresses it best.  But whether the charm will last, is another question.”

“No woman’s beauty lasts more than a few years,”—­said Roxmouth, as he glanced at the various guests who had entered or were entering.  “Lady Beaulyon wears well—­but she is forty years old, and begins to show it.  Margaret Bludlip Courtenay must be fifty, and she doesn’t show it—­she manages her Paris cosmetics wonderfully.  Some of these county ladies would be better for a little touch of her art!  But Maryllia Vancourt needs no paint,—­she can afford to be natural.  Is that the parson?”

Walden was just entering the room, and Longford put up his glasses.

“Yes,”—­he replied—­“That is the parson.  He is not without character.”

Roxmouth became suddenly interested.  He saw Walden go up to his hostess and bow—­he also saw the sudden smile that brightened Maryllia’s face as she welcomed her clerical guest,—­the one Churchman of the party.