frames were a guarantee of their excellence. On a winter's night, as
now, the room was at its richest, solidest, most comfortable. The blue
plush curtains were drawn on their stout brass rods across door and
French window. Finest selected silkstone fizzed and flamed in a patent
grate which had the extraordinary gift of radiating heat into the
apartment instead of up the chimney. The shaded Welsbach lights of the
chandelier cast a dazzling luminance on the tea-table of snow and
silver, while leaving the pictures in a gloom so discreet that not
Ruskin himself could have decided whether these were by Whistler or
Peter Paul Rubens. On either side of the marble mantelpiece were two
easy-chairs of an immense, incredible capacity, chairs of crimson plush
for Titans, chairs softer than moss, more pliant than a loving heart,
more enveloping than a caress. In one of these chairs, that to the left
of the fireplace, Mr. Curtenty was accustomed to snore every Saturday
and Sunday afternoon, and almost every evening. The other was usually
empty, but to-night it was occupied by Mrs. Curtenty, the jewel of the
casket. In the presence of her husband she always used a small
rocking-chair of ebonized cane.

To glance at this short, slight, yet plump little creature as she
reclined crosswise in the vast chair, leaving great spaces of the seat
unfilled, was to think rapturously to one's self: _This is a woman_. Her
fluffy head was such a dot against the back of the chair, the curve of
her chubby ringed hand above the head was so adorable, her black eyes
were so provocative, her slippered feet so wee--yes, and there was
something so mysteriously thrilling about the fall of her skirt that you
knew instantly her name was Clara, her temper both fiery and obstinate,
and her personality distracting. You knew that she was one of those
women of frail physique who can endure fatigues that would destroy a
camel; one of those dæmonic women capable of doing without sleep for ten