a of what she seemed like
to me.

"She was neither dark nor fair, short nor tall; amongst a crowd of other
women, she seemed undistinguishable by any special gifts; yet when you
had realized her there was no other woman in the room. She had the eyes
of an angel, only they were generally veiled; she had the figure of a
miniature Venus, soft and with delicate curves, which seemed somehow
to be always subtly asserting themselves, although she affected in
her dress an almost puritanical simplicity. Her presence in a room was
always felt at once. There are some women, beautiful or plain, whose sex
one scarcely recognizes. She was not one of these! She seemed to carry
with her the concentrated essence of femininity. Her quiet
movements, the almost noiseless rustling of her clothes, the quaint,
undistinguishable perfumes which she used, her soft, even voice, were
all things which seemed individual to her. She was like a study in
undernotes, and yet"--Lovell paused a moment--"and yet no Spanish
dancing woman, whose dark eyes and voluptuous figure have won her the
crown of the demi-monde, ever possessed that innate and mystic gift of
kindling passion like that woman. I told you I couldn't describe her! I
can't! I can only speak of effects. If my story interests you, you must
build up your own idea of her."

"Becky Sharpe!" Aynesworth murmured.

Lovell nodded.

"Perhaps," he admitted, "only Ruth was a lady. To go on with my story.
A hunting coterie, as you fellows know, means lots of liberty, and a
general free-and-easiness amongst the sexes, which naturally leads to
flirtations more or less serious. Ruth's little affairs were either too
cleverly arranged, or too harmless for gossip. Amongst the other women
of the hunt, she seemed outwardly almost demure. But one day--there was
a row!"

Lovell paused, and took a drink from a glass by his side.

"I hope you fellows won't think that I'm spinning this out," he said.
"It is, after all, in itself only a commonplace story, but I've carried
it locked up in my memory for years, and now that I've let it loose,
it unwinds itself slowly. This is how the row came about. Lumley one
afternoon missed Wingrave and Ruth from the hunting field. Someone most
unfortunately happened to tell him that they had left the run together,
and had been seen riding together towards White Lodge, which was the
name of the house where these two young men lived. Lumley followed them.
He rode into the stabl