swart than beautiful, with large hands that could clasp mine and hide
them, and feet flat and heavy; a figure that is no figure, all its lines
pressed from within out of place and which shakes as she walks; a voice
whose whisper is raucous. Then, Monsieur, conceive this woman unaware of
her defects, who simpers and attempts to use her dull eyes in
fascination. That is Mademoiselle St. Clair."

"Surely you exaggerate?"

"No, it is a fair picture," said the friend, "and yet she has admirers.
Her fortune is as large as her person."

Barrington laughed. There could be small romance in the love story which
fate had called him to assist, and certainly he would have small
difficulty in finding Mademoiselle St. Clair.

"I will not trespass on your courtesy for an introduction to her,
Monsieur," he said, "and since the wine is finished, you will pardon us
if we retire. We have traveled far and are weary."

Monsieur le Comte looked at his companion when they had gone, and
smiled.

"A new experience for Beauvais," he said; "a man who has not the honor
of knowing Madame la Marquise and has not heard of the charms of
Mademoiselle her niece."

"The picture you drew was a little too repulsive, I think."

"She will be masked," was the laughing answer. "He must have his