something there, indescribable in words, yet which affected his
hearers equally with the low gravity of his speech. The man himself
was feeling the tragedy of the story he told.

"They seemed," he continued, "always to get on well together, until
they fell in love with the same woman. Her name we will say was Ruth.
She was the wife of the Master of Hounds with whom they hunted. If I
had the story-writing gifts of Aynesworth here, I would try to
describe her. As I haven't, I will simply give you a crude idea of
what she seemed like to me.

"She was neither dark nor fair, short nor tall; amongst a crowd of
other women, she seemed undistinguishable by any special gifts; yet
when you had realized her there was no other woman in the room. She
had the eyes of an angel, only they were generally veiled; she had the
figure of a miniature Venus, soft and with delicate curves, which
seemed somehow to be always subtly asserting themselves, although she
affected in her dress an almost puritanical simplicity. Her presence
in a room was always felt at once. There are some women, beautiful or
plain, whose sex one scarcely recognizes. She was not one of these!
She seemed to carry with her the concentrated essence of femininity.
Her quiet movements, the almost noiseless rustling of her clothes, the
quaint, undistinguishable perfumes which she used, her soft, even
voice, were all things which seemed individual to her. She was like a
study in undernotes, and yet"--Lovell paused a moment--"and yet no
Spanish dancing woman, whose dark eyes and voluptuous figure have won
her the crown of the demi-monde, ever possessed that innate and mystic
gift of kindling passion like that woman. I told you I couldn't
describe her! I can't! I can only speak of effects. If my story
interests you, you must build up your own idea of her."