had had a cold in the last few days.

Stretched in the armchair she found John Derringham.

The brisk walk in the fresh spring air had brought some faint color to
her pale cheeks, her soft hair was wound about her head with becoming
simplicity, and she wore an ordinary suit which could not disguise her
beautiful slender limbs, so long and thin, a veritable Artemis in her
chaste perfection of balance and proportion.

Halcyone could pass in any crowd and perhaps no one would ever notice
her and her mouse-like coloring, but once your eye was arrested, then,
like looking at some rare bit of delicate enamel, you began to perceive
undreamed-of graces which soothed the sight until you were filled with
the consciousness of an exquisite beauty as intangible as her other
charm--distinction. An infinite serenity was in her atmosphere, a
promise of all pure and tender things in her great soft eyes. The
mystery and freshness of the night seemed always to hang about her. Her
ways were noiseless--the most creaking door appeared to forget its
irritating habit when under her touch. Thus it was that John Derringham,
smoking a cigar, never even glanced up until a voice of extreme
cultivation and softness said gently:

"Good morning. And how are you?"

Then he bounded from his chair, startled a little, and held out his
hand.

"My old friend, Miss Halcyone, the Priestess of Truth!" he exclaimed,
"as I am alive!"