erminated at the wrists by
quaint-looking cuffs of antique lace, the only ornamental morsels of
costume which she has on. It is impossible to describe how deliciously
soft, bright, fresh, pure, and delicate, this young lady is, merely
as an object to look at, contrasted with the dingy disorder of the
studio-sphere through which she now moves. The keenest observers,
beholding her as she at present appears, would detect nothing in her
face or figure, her manner or her costume, in the slightest degree
suggestive of impenetrable mystery, or incurable misfortune. And yet,
she happens to be the only person in Mr. Blyth's household at whom
prying glances are directed, whenever she walks out; whose very
existence is referred to by the painter's neighbors with an invariable
accompaniment of shrugs, sighs, and lamenting looks; and whose "case" is
always compassionately designated as "a sad one," whenever it is brought
forward, in the course of conversation, at dinner-tables and tea-tables
in the new suburb.

Socially, we may be all easily divided into two classes in this
world--at least in the civilized part of it. If we are not the people
whom others talk about, then we are sure to be the people who talk about
others. The young lady who had just entered Mr. Blyth's painting-room,
belonged to the former order of human beings.

She seemed fated to be used as a constant subject of conversation by
her fellow-creatures. Even her face alone--simply as a face--could not
escape perpetual discussion; and that, too, among Valentine's friends,
who all knew her well, and loved her dearly. It was the oddest thing in
the world, but no one of them could ever agree with another (except on
a certain point, to be presently mentioned) as to which of her personal
attractions ought to be first selected for approval, or quoted as
particularly asserting her claims to the admiration of all worshippers
of beauty.

To take three or four instances of this. There was Mr. Gimble, the civil
little picture-dealers and a very good friend in every way to Valentine:
there was Mr. Gimble, who declared that her principal charm was in her
complexion--her fair, clear, wonderful complexion--which he would defy
any artist alive to paint, let him try ever so hard, or be ever so great
a man. Then came the Dowager Countess of Brambledown, the frolicsome
old aristocrat, who was generally believed to be "a little cracked;"
who haunted Mr. Blyth's studio, after having on