low-brown, and
the former had a natural wave in it. Her shoulders and bust were superb,
and her small head was beautifully set on a lovely, rather long, neck.
She had an oval face, with straight, delicate features, now slightly
distorted by temper. But the most remarkable thing about her was her
complexion. Her skin was exquisite, delicately smooth and white, warmly
white like a white rose. She did nothing to add to its natural beauty,
though nearly every woman in London declared that she had a special
preparation and always slept in a mask coated thickly with it. The Bond
Street oracles never received a visit from her. She had been born
with an enchanting complexion, a marvellous skin. She was young, just
twenty-four. She let herself alone because she knew improvement--in
that direction--was not possible. The mask coated with Juliet paste,
or Aphrodite ivorine, existed only in the radiant imaginations of her
carefully-arranged acquaintances.

In appearance she was a siren. By nature she was a siren too. But she
had a temper and sometimes showed it. She showed it now.

As she walked in slowly all the scattered people leaned forward,
murmuring their thanks, and the men stood up and gathered round her.

"Beautiful! Beautiful!" muttered the thin, elderly man in a hoarse
voice, striking his fingers repeatedly against the palms of his withered
hands.

The young man looked at the singer and said nothing; but the anger in
her face was reflected in his, and mingled with a flaming of sympathy
that made his appearance almost startling. The white-haired woman
clasped the singer's hands and said, "Thank you, dearest!" in a
thrilling voice, and the little dark woman with the red fan cried out,
"Viola, you simply pack up Venice, carry it over the Continent and set
it down here in London!"

Lady Holme frowned slightly.

"Thank you, thank you, you good-natured dears," she said with an attempt
at lightness. Then, hearing the thin rustle of a dress, she turned
sharply and cast an unfriendly glance at a mild young woman with a very
pointed nose, on which a pair of eyeglasses sat astride, who came meekly
forward, looking self-conscious, and smiling with one side of her mouth.
The man with the protruding jaw, who was Lord Holme, said to her, in a
loud bass voice:

"Thanks, Miss Filberte, thanks."

"Oh, not at all, Lord Holme," replied the accompanist with a sudden
air of rather foolish delight. "I consider it an honour to accompan