t fantastic toe, but
there is no evidence; there is only a zephyr of conjecture, only the
world's low whisper not yet broken into storm--not yet.

Yes, she is a source of disappointment to them. They have noted her
points; her beauty has burned itself into their jealousy; her merry
laugh has fanned their scorn; her bountiful presence is an affront to
them, as is her ripe and lissom figure. They pronounce her morally
unsound; they say her nature has a taint; they chill her popularity
with silent smiles of slow disparagement. But they have no
particulars; their slander is not concrete. It is an amorphous
accusation, sweeping and vague, spleen-born and proofless.

She certainly knows how to dress. Her weeds sit easily and smoothly on
their delightful mould. You might think of her as a sweet, warm statue
painted in water-colours. (Who wouldn't be her Pygmalion?) If she adds
a garment it is an improvement; if she removes a garment it is an
improvement; if she dresses her hair it is better; if she lets it fall
in a brown cascade over her white shoulders it is still better; when
it is yet in curl-papers it is charming. If you smudge the tip of her
nose with a burnt cork the effect is irresistible; if you stick a
flower in her hair it is a fancy dress, a complete costume--she
becomes Flora, Aurora, anything you like to name. Yet I have never
clothed her in a flower, I have never smudged her nose with a burnt
cork, I have never uncurled her hair. Ali Baba's character must not go
drifting down the stream of gossip with the Hill Captains and the
Under-Secretaries. But I hope that this does not destroy the argument.
The argument is that she is quite too delightful, and therefore blown
upon by poisonous whispers.

Her bungalow is an Elysium, of course; it is a cottage with a
verandah, built on a steep slope, and buried deep in shrubbery and
trees. Within all is plain, but exquisitely neat. A wood fire is
burning gaily, and the kindly tea-tray is at hand. It is five o'clock.
Clean servants move silently about with hot water, cake, &c. The
little boy, a hostage from papa in the warm plains below, is sitting
pensive, after the fashion of Anglo-Indian children, in a little
chair. His bearer crouches behind him. The unspeakable widow, in a
tea-gown dimly splendid with tropical vegetation in neutral tints,
holds a piece of chocolate in her hand, while she leans back in her
fauteuil convulsed with laughter. (It is not necessary to say t