Only a soft
serge curtain and a pot of mignonette on the ledge of the window,
distinguished the cottage at which Alan Merrick knocked from the
others beside it. Externally that is to say; for within it was as
dainty as Morris wall-papers and merino hangings and a delicate
feminine taste in form and color could make it. Keats and Shelley
lined the shelves; Rossetti's wan maidens gazed unearthly from the
over-mantel. The door was opened for him by Herminia in person;
for she kept no servant,--that was one of her principles. She was
dressed from head to foot in a simple white gown, as pure and sweet
as the soul it covered. A white rose nestled in her glossy hair;
three sprays of white lily decked a vase on the mantel-piece. Some
dim survival of ancestral ideas made Herminia Barton so array
herself in the white garb of affiance for her bridal evening. Her
cheek was aglow with virginal shrinking as she opened the door, and
welcomed Alan in. But she held out her hand just as frankly as
ever to the man of her free choice as he advanced to greet her.
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