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"My mother was twice married," she explained, in her easy, friendly manner. "The first time to Mr Halcombe, my father, and the second time to Mr Fairlie, my half-sister's father. My father was a poor man, and Miss Fairlie's father was a rich man. I've got nothing, and she has a fortune. I'm dark and ugly, and she's fair and pretty." She said all this quite happily. "My sister and I are very fond of each other, so you must please both of us, Mr Hartright, or please neither of us."

When I got up the next morning, I was greeted by bright sunlight and a view of blue sea through the window. The future suddenly seemed full of promise. I found my way down to the breakfast-room and there, looking out of a window with her back turned to me, was a young woman with a perfect figure. But when she turned and walked towards me, I saw to my surprise that her face was ugly. Hair grew on her upper lip, and her mouth was large and firm. It was almost a man's face, but the friendly smile she gave me softened it and made her look more womanly. She welcomed me in a pleasant, educated voice and introduced herself as Marian Halcombe, Miss Fairlie's half-sister.

She then told me that Miss Fairlie had a headache that morning and was being looked after by Mrs Vesey, an elderly lady who had once been Miss Fairlie's governess.

Hearing the word "adventure" reminded me of my meeting with the woman in white, and her reference to Mrs Fairlie. I told Miss Halcombe all about my adventure, and she showed an eager interest, especially in the mention of her mother.

"So we shall be alone at breakfast, Mr Hartright," she said. "As for Mr Fairlie, your employer, you will doubtless meet him later. He is Miss Fairlie's uncle, a single man, who became Miss Fairlie's guardian when her parents died. He suffers from some mysterious illness of the nerves, and never leaves his rooms."

While we ate breakfast, she described the quiet, regular life that she and her sister led. "Do you think you will get used to it?" she said. "Or will you be restless, and wish for some adventure?"

"But you didn't find out the woman's name?" she said.

"I'm afraid not. Only that she came from Hampshire."

"Well, I shall spend the morning," said Miss Halcombe, "looking through my mother's letters. I'm sure I will find some clues there to explain this mystery. Lunch is at two o'clock, Mr Hartright, and I shall introduce you to my sister then."

When I began to reply, he at once raised his hand to stop me.

After breakfast Mr Fairlie's personal servant, Louis, came to tell me that Mr Fairlie would like to see me. I followed the servant upstairs and was shown into a large room full of art treasures. There, in an armchair, sat a small, pale, delicate-looking man of about fifty. Despite his fine clothes and the valuable rings on his soft white fingers, there was something very unattractive about him.

"So glad to have you here, Mr Hartright," he said in a high, complaining voice. "Please sit down, but don't move the chair. In my state of nerves any movement is painful to me. May I ask if you have found everything satisfactory here at Limmeridge?"

"Please excuse me. But could you speak more softly? I simply cannot bear loud voices, or indeed, any kind of loud sound."

The interview did not last long as Mr Fairlie quickly lost interest in it. He informed me that the ladies would make all the arrangements for their drawing lessons.

"I suffer so much from my nerves, Mr Hartright," he said. "Do you mind ringing the bell for Louis? Thank you. Good morning!"

"I understand you, Mr Hartright," she said. "You are wondering about your other student. Well, she has got over her headache, but did not want any lunch. If you will follow me, I think I can find her somewhere in the garden."

With great relief I left the room, and spent the rest of the morning looking forward to lunchtime, when I would be introduced to Miss Fairlie.

We walked out together along a path through the garden, until we came to a pretty summer-house. Inside I could see a young lady standing near a table, looking out at the view and turning the pages of a little drawing book. This was Miss Laura Fairlie.

At two o'clock I entered the dining room and found Miss Halcombe seated at the table with a rather fat lady who smiled all the time. This, I discovered, was Mrs Vesey. We started eating and before long we had finished lunch, with still no sign of Miss Fairlie. Miss Halcombe noticed my frequent glances at the door.

How can I describe her? How can I separate this moment from all that has happened since then? In a drawing I later made of her she appears as a light, youthful figure wearing a simple white and blue striped dress and a summer hat. Her hair is light brown, almost gold, and she has eyes that are clear and blue, with a look of truth in them. They give her whole face such a charm that it is difficult to notice each individual feature: the delicate, though not perfectly straight, nose; the sweet, sensitive mouth. The life and beauty of her face lies in her eyes.

Such was my impression, but at the same time I felt there was something about her that I could not explain -- something that I ought to remember, but could not. In fact, I was thinking about this so much that I could hardly answer when she greeted me.

Miss Fairlie laughed with bright good humour.

"I hope he will give his true opinion of them and not just say something to please me," she said.

"May I enquire why you say that?" I asked.

Miss Halcombe, believing I was shy, quickly said, "Look at your perfect student," and she pointed at the sketches. "She has already started work before your lessons have begun. You must show them to Mr Hartright, Laura, when we go for a drive."

"Because I shall believe all that you tell me," she answered simply.

Later we went for our promised drive, but I must confess that I was far more interested in Miss Fairlie's conversation than her sketches. I soon realized I was behaving more like a guest than a drawing teacher and when I was on my own again I felt uneasy and dissatisfied with myself.

In those few words she gave me the key to her own trusting, truthful character.

Later, when Miss Fairlie had finished playing and had wandered out into the moonlit garden, Miss Halcombe called me.

At dinner that evening these feelings soon disappeared, and when the meal was over, we went into a large sitting room with glass doors leading into the garden. Mrs Vesey fell asleep in an armchair and Miss Halcombe sat near a window to look through her mother's letters. At my request Miss Fairlie played the piano.

I went over and she showed me a letter.

"Mr Hartright, will you come here for a minute?"

"It's from my mother to her second husband twelve years ago. She mentions a lady from Hampshire called Mrs Catherick, who had come to look after her sick sister living in the village. It seems she brought her only child with her, a little girl called Anne, who was about a year older than Laura. I was at a school in Paris at the time. My mother, who took a great interest in the village school, says the little girl was slow in learning so she gave her lessons here at the house. She also gave her some of Laura's white dresses and white hats, saying she looked better in white than any other colour. She says that little Anne Catherick was so grateful, and loved her so much, that one day she kissed her hand and said, "I'll always wear white as long as I live. It will help me to remember you.""

How will I ever forget that peaceful picture? The flowers outside, the music of Mozart, Miss Halcombe reading the letters in the half-light, the delicate outline of Miss Fairlie's face against the dark wall. It was an evening of sights and sounds to remember for ever.

"Yes, Miss Halcombe, as young as that."

"And was she dressed from head to foot, all in white?"

Miss Halcombe stopped and looked at me.

"All in white."

"Did the woman you met that night seem young enough to be twenty-two or twenty-three?"

From where I sat, I could see Miss Fairlie walking in the garden, and the whiteness of her dress in the moonlight suddenly made my heart beat faster.

Before she could finish, I jumped up. Outside stood Miss Fairlie, a white figure alone in the moonlight. And suddenly I realized what it was that I had been unable to remember -- it was the extraordinary likeness between Miss Laura Fairlie and the runaway from the asylum, the woman in white.

"Now listen to what my mother says at the end of the letter," Miss Halcombe continued. "It will surprise you. She says that perhaps the real reason for her liking little Anne Catherick so much was that she looked exactly like --"

"You see it!" said Miss Halcombe. "Just as my mother saw the likeness between them years ago."

"Yes," I replied. "But very unwillingly. To connect that lonely, friendless woman, even by an accidental likeness, to Miss Fairlie disturbs me very much. I don't like to think of it. Please call her in from that horrible moonlight!"

"We won't say anything about this likeness to Laura," she said. "It will be a secret between you and me." Then she called Miss Fairlie in, asking her to play the piano again; and so my first, eventful day at Limmeridge House came to an end.

Every day I was near her in that dangerous closeness which exists between teacher and student. Often, as we bent over her sketch-book, our hands and faces almost touched. I breathed the perfume of her hair. I should have put a professional distance between myself and her, as I had always done with my students in the past. But I did not, and it was soon too late.

I loved her.

By the third month of my stay in Cumberland, I was lost in dreams of love and blind to the dangers ahead of me. Then the first warning finally came -- from her. In the space of one night, she changed towards me. There was a sudden nervous distance, and a kind of sadness, in her attitude. The pain I felt at that moment is beyond description. But I knew then that she had changed because she had suddenly discovered not only my feelings, but her own as well. This change was also reflected in Miss Halcombe, who said nothing unusual to me, but who had developed a new habit of always watching me. This new and awful situation continued for some time until, on a Thursday, near the end of the third month, I was at last rescued by the sensible and courageous Miss Halcombe.

The days passed, the weeks passed, and summer changed into a golden autumn. A peaceful, happy time, but at last, I had to confess to myself my real feelings for Miss Fairlie.

"You must leave because Laura Fairlie is to be married."

We walked to the summer-house and went inside. Miss Halcombe turned to me. "Mr Hartright, what I have to say to you I can say here. Now, I know that you are a good man who always acts correctly. Your story about that unhappy woman in London proves that. As your friend, I must tell you that I have discovered your feelings for my sister, Laura. Although you have done nothing wrong, except show weakness, I must tell you to leave Limmeridge House before any harm is done. And there is something else I must tell you, which will also give you pain. Will you shake hands with your friend, Marian Halcombe, first?"

"Have you got a moment for me?" she asked after breakfast. "Shall we go into the garden?"

She spoke with such kindness that I shook her hand.

The last word went like a bullet to my heart. I turned white, I felt cold. With one word all my hopes disappeared.

"You must put an end to your feelings, here, where you first met her. I will hide nothing from you. She is not marrying for love, but because of a promise she made to her father just before he died. The man she is to marry arrives here next Monday."

"Let me go today," I said bitterly. "The sooner the better."

"No, not today. That would look strange. Wait till tomorrow, after the post has arrived. Say to Mr Fairlie that you have received bad news and must return to London."

"A rich man from Hampshire."

"I will follow your advice, Miss Halcombe," I said sadly. "But may I ask who the gentleman engaged to Miss Fairlie is?"

"Sir Percival Glyde."

Sir! I remembered Anne Catherick's suspicious question about Baronets, and my voice shook a little as I asked, "Is he a Baronet?"

Hampshire! Again a connection with Anne Catherick!

"And his name?" I asked, as calmly as I could.

She paused for a moment, then answered, "Yes, a Baronet."