An Unknown Lover by Vaizey 

Intro

They were seated together at the breakfast-table, a handsome,

bored-looking man of thirty-three, and a girl of twenty-six, whose dress of

a rich blue made an admirable touch of colour in the dim, brown room.

The house had been designed in the period when shelter from the

wind seems to have been the one desired good, and was therefore built

in a dell, from which the garden rose in a rapid slope. Today the house

would crown the head of the slope, and the dell be relegated to a retreat

for occasional hot afternoons; the breakfast-room would face east, and

the sun stream in through wide bay-windows, from which fact the spirits

of the occupants would benefit afresh with each new morn. As it was the

light filtered dimly through mullioned panes, and the oak panelled walls

gave back no answering gleam. Curtains and carpet alike were of dull

neutral tints, and the one bright spot in the picture was the blue dress of

the girl, who sat behind the coffee urn.

Was she beautiful? Was she merely pretty? Was she redeemed from

plainness only by a certain quality of interest and charm? At different

times an affirmative answer might have been given to each of the three

questions in turns; at the moment Katrine Beverley appeared just a tall,

graceful girl who arranged her hair with a fine eye for the exigencies of an

irregular profile, and who deserved an order of merit for choosing a dress

at once so simple, so artistic, and so becoming.

Martin was enjoying a breakfast menu which he sturdily refused to

vary. Year in, year out, through dog days, and through frost, the same

three courses formed his morning meal. Porridge—the which he ate

barbarously with sugar, instead of salt,—bacon and eggs, marmalade

and toast. The appearance of the same dish at the dinner-table twice

over in a fortnight would have evoked complaint and reprisals, but he

would stand no tampering with his breakfast. The Times and the Morning 

Post lay beside his plate. He glanced at the headlines in the interval

between porridge and bacon. Nothing going on! It was the dullest of all

dead years.

Katrine was nibbling daintily at fruit and cream. For the moment a

fruitarian craze was in full swing, and she shuddered disgustedly at the

thought of bacon, refusing to view it in its crisp and rashered form, and

obstinately harking back to the sty. In a few months’ time she would

probably be discoursing learnedly of the uric acid in fruit, and seriously

contemplating a course of “Salisbury.” When the maid entered the room with the morning’s letters and the

young mistress turned over her correspondence with white, ringless

hands, the discovery that she was not the wife of the man at the head of

the table would have come to an onlooker less as a surprise than as the

confirmation of a settled conviction. These two people had not the air of a

married couple. As individuals they were more calmly, amicably detached

than it is possible to be in that closest and most demanding of

relationships; moreover, family likeness betrayed itself in curve and line,

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