the shoulder of the right arm. The effect is singular, but good.

"It is to show that she has the muscle above the elbow," says old Sir
Adolphus, who is learned in sculpture and anatomy. "You know, not one
woman in ten thousand has it; and for want of it their arms fall in
above the elbow. I have heard sculptors say so a hundred times. She has
it, and so she wears that flat bracelet to emphasize the fact."

Brandolin feels annoyed. There is no reason in life why he should object
to Madame Sabaroff having any number of affectations and vanities, or
why he should mind hearing this handsome old _viveur_ discuss them; but
he is annoyed by both facts.

There is not a plain woman among the guests of Surrenden: some are even
far beyond the average of good looks, and all have that _chic_ which
lends in itself a kind of beauty to the woman of the world. But the
handsomest of them all, Nina Curzon herself, pales beside the beautiful
pallor of the Russian lady, contrasted as it is with the splendor of her
jewels, the red rose of her lips, and the darkness of her eyelashes and
eyes.

At dinner, Xenia Sabaroff does not speak much: she has a dreamy look,
almost a fatigued one.

Brandolin is opposite to her: as there are no ornaments or flowers on
the table higher than eight inches, he can contemplate her at his
leisure across the field of shed rose-leaves which is between them.
Finding that she is so silent, he talks in his best fashion, in his most
reckless, antithetical, picturesque manner: he perceives he gains her
attention, though he never directly addresses her.

He also makes Mr. Wootton furious. Mr. Wootton has half a dozen good
stories untold. His method of getting good stories is ingenious: he
procures obscure but clever memoirs, French and English, which are
wholly forgotten, alters their most piquant anecdotes a little, and fits
them on to living and famous personages; the result is admirable, and
has earned him his great reputation as a _raconteur_ of contemporary
scandal. He has six delicious things ready now, and he cannot find a
moment in which he can lead up to and place any one of them.

"Brandolin is so amusing when he likes," says Lady Arthur Audley,
incautiously, to this suppressed and sullen victim.

"A monologist! a monologist!" replies Mr. Wootton, with a deprecatory
accent.

Lady Arthur is silenced, for she has not the slightest idea what a
monologist is. She fancies it means some kind of a sect li