Chapter 1
_ CHAPTER I
THE morning-room of a large house in Portman Square, London.
A gentleman in the prime of life stood with his elbow on the broad mantel-piece, and made himself agreeable to a young lady, seated a little way off, playing at work.
To the ear he was only conversing, but his eyes dwelt on her with loving admiration all the time. Her posture was favorable to this furtive inspection, for she leaned her fair head over her work with a pretty, modest, demure air, that seemed to say, "I suspect I am being admired: I will not look to see: I might have to check it."
The gentleman‘s features were ordinary, except his brow--that had power in it--but he had the beauty of color； his sunburned features glowed with health, and his eye was bright. On the whole, rather good-looking when he smiled, but ugly when he frowned； for his frown was a scowl, and betrayed a remarkable power of hating.
Miss Arabella Bruce was a beauty. She had glorious masses of dark red hair, an

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