n, dissatisfied air, and did not look
happy. Imogen learned afterward that her marriage, which was considered
a triumph and a grand affair when it took place, had not turned out very
well. Count Ernest de Conflans was rather a black sheep in some
respects, had a strong taste for baccarat and _rouge et noir_, and spent
so much of his bride's money at these amusements during the first year
of their life together, that her friends became alarmed, and their
interference had brought about a sort of amicable separation. Count
Ernest lived in Washington, receiving a specified sum out of his wife's
income, and she was travelling indefinitely in Europe with her mother.
It was no wonder that she did not look satisfied and content.

"Miss Opdyke, of New York" was quite different and more attractive,
Imogen thought. She had never seen any one in the least like her. Rather
tall, with a long slender throat, a waist of fabulous smallness, and
hands which, in their _gants de Suede_, did not seem more than two
inches wide, she gave the impression of being as fragile in make and as
delicately fibred as an exotic flower. She had pretty, arch, gray eyes,
a skin as white as a magnolia blossom, and a fluff of wonderful pale
hair--artlessly looped and pinned to look as if it had blown by accident
into its place--which yet exactly suited the face it framed. She was
restlessly vivacious, her mobile mouth twitched with a hidden amusement
every other moment; when she smiled she revealed pearly teeth and a
dimple; and she smiled often. Her dress, apparently simple, was a wonder
of fit and cut,--a skirt of dark fawn-brown, a blouse of ivory-white
silk, elaborately tucked and shirred, a cape of glossy brown fur whose
high collar set off her pale vivid face, and a "picture hat" with a
wreath of plumes. Imogen, whose preconceived notion of an American girl
included diamond ear-rings sported morning, noon, and night, observed
with surprise that she wore no ornaments except one slender bangle. She
had in her hand a great bunch of yellow roses, which exactly toned in
with the ivory and brown of her dress, and she played with these and
smelled them, as she sat on a high black-oak settle, and, consciously or
unconsciously, made a picture of herself.

She seemed as much surprised and entertained at Imogen as Imogen could
possibly be at her.

"I suppose you run up to London often," was her first remark.

"N-o, not often." In fact, Imogen had been in Londo