those young women who had baffled description for some years before she
had commenced to take life seriously. She was neither fair nor dark,
petite nor tall. No one could ever have called her nondescript, or have
extolled any particular grace of form or feature. Her complexion had
defied the ravages of sun and wind and that moderate indulgence in
cigarettes and cocktails which the youth of her day affected. Her nose
was inclined to be retroussé, her mouth tender but impudent, her grey
eyes mostly veiled in expression but capable of wonderful changes. She
was curled up in a chair when Nigel entered, immersed in a fashion
paper. She held out her left hand, which he raised to his lips.

"Well, Nigel, dear," she exclaimed, "what do you think of my new
profession?"

"I hate it," he answered frankly.

She sighed and laid down the fashion paper resignedly.

"You always did object to a woman doing anything in the least useful. Do
you realise that if anything in the world can save this stupid old
country, I have done it?"

"I realise that you've been running hideous risks," he replied.

She looked at him petulantly.

"What of it?" she demanded. "We all run risks when we do anything worth
while."

"Not quite the sort that you have been facing."