table gave a new tone to Bohemianism. Winston, swiftly realizing this,
began observing the lady with a curiosity which rapidly developed into
deeper interest. He became more and more attracted by her unique
personality, which persistently appealed to his aroused imagination,
even while there continued to haunt him a dim tantalizing remembrance
he was unable wholly to master. He assuredly had never either seen or
heard of this young woman before, yet she constantly reminded him of
the past. Her eyes, the peculiar contour of her face, the rather odd
trick she had of shaking back the straying tresses of her dark, glossy
hair, and, above all, that quick smile with which she greeted any flash
of humor, and which produced a fascinating dimple in her cheek, all
served to puzzle and stimulate him; while admiration of her so apparent
womanliness began as instantly to replace the vague curiosity he had
felt toward her as an actress. She was different from what he had
imagined, with absolutely nothing to suggest the glare and glitter of
the footlights. Until this time he had scarcely been conscious that
she possessed any special claim to beauty; yet now, her face, illumined
by those dark eyes filled with quick intelligence, became most
decidedly attractive, peculiarly lovable and womanly. Besides, she
evidently possessed a rare taste in dress, which met with his masculine
approval. Much of this, it is true, he reasoned out later and slowly,
for during that first meal only two circumstances impressed him
clearly--the depth of feeling glowing within those wonderfully
revealing eyes, and her complete ignoring of his presence. If she
recognized any addition to their number, there was not the slightest
sign given. Once their eyes met by merest accident; but hers
apparently saw nothing, and Winston returned to his disagreeable labors
at the Opera House, nursing a feeling akin to disappointment.

Concealed within the gloomy shadows of the wings, he stood entranced
that night watching her depict the character of a wife whose previous
happy life had been irretrievably ruined by deceit; and the force, the
quiet originality of her depiction, together with its marvellous
clearness of detail and its intense realism, held him captive. The
plot of the play was ugly, melodramatic, and entirely untrue to nature;
against it Winston's cultivated taste instantly revolted; yet this
woman interpreted her own part with the rare instinct of a