DIANA

Diana Von Taer can not be called a type. She was individual.
Aristocratic to her finger tips, she was unlike all other aristocrats.
An admitted queen of society, her subjects were few and indifferent. She
possessed ancient lineage, was highly accomplished, had been born to the
purple, as the saying is; but none of these things conspired to make her
the curious creature she was.

As we make her acquaintance she is twenty-three years of age--and looks
eighteen. She is tall and slender and carries her handsome form with
exquisite grace. Diana is never abrupt; her voice is ever modulated to
soft, even tones; she rises from a chair or couch with the lithe,
sinuous motion of a serpent uncoiling.

Her face, critically regarded, is not so admirable as her form. The
features are a trifle too elongated, and their delicacy is marred by a
nose a bit broad and unshapely and a mouth with thin lips primly set.
Her dark eyes might be magnificent if wide open: but through the narrow
slits of their lids, half hidden by long curling lashes, the eyes peer
at you with a cold, watchful, intent gaze that carries a certain uncanny
and disconcerting fascination.

Yet the girl is essentially feminine. If you refrain from meeting that
discomfiting gaze--and her familiars have learned to avoid it--Diana
impresses you as being graceful, dainty and possessed of charming
manners. Her taste in dress is perfect. She converses fluently on many
topics. It is her custom to rise at ten o'clock, whatever time she may
have retired the night before; to read until luncheon; to devote the