Eleanor was certainly thinking more of her father than herself, as she a ranged her hair before the glass, and removed the traces of sorrow from her face and yet I should be untrue if I said that she was not anxious to appear well before her lover: why else was she so sedulous with hat stubborn curl that would rebel against her hand, and smooth so eagerly her ruffled ribands. Why else did she damp her eyes to dispel the redness, and bite her pretty lips to bring back the colour? Of course she was anxious to look her best, for she was but a mortal angel after all. But had she been immortal, had she flitted back to the sitting- room on a cherub's wings, she could not have had a more faithful heart, or a truer wish to save her father at any cost to herself. (Chapter 11, "Iphigenia")

Last modified 2000