harmless old lady of the night on the boundary of her social world.
She was dressed with unfailing: elegance--and her taste lavished
itself especially on black silk and the richest lace. The shade of
heliotrope satin harmonized with the yellowish folds of her hair.
Her small, warm, unwrinkled hands were without rings, being too
delicately beautiful. In one she held a tiny fan, white and soft
like the wing of a moth; on her lap lay a handkerchief as light as
smoke or a web of gossamer.

She rocked softly. She unfolded and folded the night-moth fan
softly. She touched the handkerchief to her rosy youthful lips
softly. The south wind blew in her face softly. Everything about
her was softness, all her movements were delicate and refined.
Even the early soft beauty of her figure was not yet lost. (When a
girl of nineteen, she had measured herself by the proportions of
the ideal Venus; and the ordeal had left her with a girdle of
golden reflections.)

But if some limner had been told the whole truth of what she was
and been requested to imagine a fitting body for such a soul, he
would never have painted Mrs. Conyers as she looked. Nature is not
frank in her characterizations, lest we remain infants in
discernment. She allows foul to appear fair, and bids us become
educated in the hardy virtues of insight and prudence. Education
as yet had advanced but little; and the deepest students in the
botany of women have been able to describe so few kinds that no
man, walking through the perfumed enchanted wood, knows at what
moment he may step upon or take hold of some unknown deadly variety.

As the moments passed, she stopped rocking and peered toward the