ellow hair. Just in front of us. Do you know?"

Betty had leaned forward to look. "Don't you even know her by sight?"
she said. "That is Miss Woodruff, the girl who follows Madame Okraska
everywhere. She attached herself to her years ago, I believe, in Rome or
Paris;--some sort of little art-student she was. What a bore that sort
of devotion must be. Isn't she queer?"

"I had heard that she's an adopted daughter," said Captain Ashton; "the
child of Norwegian peasants, and that Madame Okraska found her in a
Norwegian forest--by moonlight;--a most romantic story."

"A fable, I think. Someone was telling me about her the other day. She
is only a camp-follower and _protegee_; and a compatriot of mine. She is
an orphan and Madame Okraska supports her."

"She doesn't look like a _protegee_," said Gregory Jardine, his eyes on
the young person thus described; "she looks like a protector."

"I should think she must be most of all a problem," said Betty. "What a
price to pay for celebrity--these hangers-on who make one ridiculous by
their infatuation. Madame Okraska is incapable of defending herself
against them, I hear. The child's clothes might have come from Norway!"

The _protegee_, protector or problem, who turned to them now and then
her oddly blunted, oddly resolute young profile, had tawny hair, and a
sun-browned skin. She wore a little white silk frock with flat bows of
dull blue upon it. Her evening cloak was bordered with swansdown. Two
black bows, one at the crown of her head and one at the nape of her
neck, secured the thick plaits of her hair, which was parted and brushed
up from her forehead in a bygone school-girlish fashion. She made
Gregory think of a picture by Alfred Stevens he had seen somewhere and
of an archaic Greek statue, and her appearance and demeanour interested
him. He continued to look at her while the unrest and expectancy of the
audience rolled into billows of excitement.

A staid, melancholy man, forerunner of the great artist, had appeared
and performed his customary and cryptic function. "Why do they always
screw up the piano-stool at the last moment!" Betty Jardine murmured.
"Is it to pepper our tongues with anguish before the claret?--Oh, she
must be coming now! She always keeps one waiting like this!"

The billows had surged to a storm. Signs of frenzy were visible in the
faces on the platform. They had caught a glimpse of the approaching
divinity.

"Here she is!" cried Betty Jardin