Francesca rose superior to all these weaknesses,
and I doubt if the Gallery of the Kings ever served as a background for
anything lovelier or more high-bred than that untitled slip of a girl
from 'the States.' Her trailing gown of pearl-white satin fell in
unbroken lustrous folds behind her. Her beautiful throat and shoulders
rose in statuesque whiteness from the mist of chiffon that encircled
them. Her dark hair showed a moonbeam parting that rested the eye,
wearied by the contemplation of waves and frizzes fresh from the
curling-tongs. Her mother's pearls hung in ropes from neck to waist, and
the one spot of colour about her was the single American Beauty rose
she carried. There is a patriotic florist in Paris who grows these
long-stemmed empresses of the rose-garden, and Mr. Beresford sends some
to me every week. Francesca had taken the flower without permission, and
I must say she was as worthy of it as it of her.

She curtsied deeply, with no exaggerated ceremony, but with a sort
of innocent and childlike gravity, while the satin of her gown spread
itself like a great blossom over the floor. Her head was bowed until the
dark lashes swept her crimson cheeks; then she rose again from the heart
of the shimmering lily, with the one splendid rose glowing against all
her dazzling whiteness, and floated slowly across the dreaded space
to the door of exit as if she were preceded by invisible heralds and
followed by invisible train-bearers.

"Who is she?" we heard whispered here and there. "Look at the rose!"
"Look at the pearls! Is she a princess or only an American?"

I glanced at the Reverend Ronald. I imagined he looked pale; at any rate
he was biting his under lip nervously, and I believe he was in fancy
laying his serious, Scottish, allopathic, Presbyterian heart at
Francesca's gay, American, homoeopathic, Swedenborgian feet.

"It is a pity Miss Monroe is such an ardent republican," he said, with
unconcealed bitterness; "otherwise she ought to be a duchess. I never
saw a head that better suited a coronet, nor, if you will pardon me, one
that contained more caprices."

"It is true she flatly refused to accompany us here," I allowed, "but
perhaps she has some explanation more or less silly and serviceable;
meantime, I defy you to tell me she isn't a beauty, and I implore you
to say nothing about its being only skin-deep. Give me a beautiful
exterior, say I, and I will spend my life in making the hidden things of
mi