He turned and indicated the sofa, toward which she immediately advanced.
As she sat down he noted vaguely that she was exquisitely dressed,
certainly one of the best dressed women in the room. Her costume was
daring without being startling, being merely black and white largely,
boldly contrasted. He felt indefinitely proud of the dress. Some
instinct in the man's simple, strong mind told him that it was good for
women to be beautiful, but his ignorance of the sex being profound he
had no desire to analyze the beauty. He had no mental reservation with
regard to her. Indeed it would have been hard to find fault with Etta
Sydney Bamborough, looking upon her merely as a beautiful woman,
exquisitely dressed. In a cynical age this man was without cynicism. He
did not dream of reflecting that the lovely hair owed half its beauty to
the clever handling of a maid, that the perfect dress had been the
all-absorbing topic of many of its wearer's leisure hours. He was, in
fact, young for his years, and what is youth but a happy ignorance? It
is only when we know too much that Gravity marks us for her own.

Mrs. Sydney Bamborough looked up at him with a certain admiration. This
man was like a mountain breeze to one who has breathed nothing but the
faded air of drawing-rooms.

She drew in her train with a pretty curve of her gloved wrist.

"You look as if you did not know what it was to be tired; but perhaps
you will sit down. I can make room."

He accepted with alacrity.

"And now," she said, "let me hear where you have been. I have only had
time to shake hands with you the last twice that we have met! You said