been ready to swear to it. This lady had recently dawned on London
society--a young widow. She rarely mentioned her husband; it was
understood to be a painful subject. He had been attached to several
embassies, she said; he had a brilliant career before him, and suddenly
he had died abroad. And then she gave a little sigh and a bright smile,
which, being interpreted, meant "Let us change the subject."

There was never any doubt about Mrs. Sydney Bamborough. She was
aristocratic to the tips of her dainty white fingers--composed, gentle,
and quite sure of herself. Quite the grand lady, as Lady Mealhead said.
But Mrs. Sydney Bamborough did not know Lady Mealhead, which may have
accounted for the titled woman's little sniff of interrogation. As a
matter of fact, Etta Sydney Bamborough came from excellent ancestry, and
could claim an uncle here, a cousin there, and a number of distant
relatives everywhere, should it be worth the while.

It was safe to presume that she was rich from the manner in which she
dressed, the number of servants and horses she kept, the general air of
wealth which pervaded her existence. That she was beautiful any one
could see for himself--not in the shop-windows, among the presumably
self-selected types of English beauty, but in the proper place--namely,
in her own and other aristocratic drawing-rooms.

She was talking to a tall, fair Frenchman--in perfect French--and was
herself nearly as tall as he. Bright brown hair waved prettily back from
a white forehead, clever, dark gray eyes and a lovely complexion--one of
those complexions which, from a purity of conscience or a steadiness of
nerve, never change. Cheeks of a faint pink, an expressive, mobile
mouth, a neck of dazzling white. Such was Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, in the
prime of her youth.