Simpkins had never read Virgil, but he knew the goddess by her walk. She
was young--not over thirty--and tall and stately. Her gown was black,
some soft stuff which clung about her, and a bunch of violets at her
waist made the whole corner faintly sweet. Her features were regular,
but of a type strange to Simpkins, the nose slightly aquiline, the lips
full and red--vividly so by contrast to the clear white of the skin--and
the forehead low and straight. Black hair waved back from it, and was
caught up by the coils of a golden asp, from whose lifted head two
rubies gleamed. Doubtless a woman would have pronounced her gown absurd
and her way of wearing her hair an intolerable affectation. But it was
effective with the less discriminating animal--instantly so with
Simpkins.

And then she raised her eyes and looked at him. To the first glance they
were dusky eyes, deep and fathomless, changing swiftly to the blue-black
of the northern skies on a clear winter night, and flashing out sharp
points of light, like star-rays. He knew that in that glance he had been
weighed, gauged and classed, and, though he was used to questioning
Governors and Senators quite unabashed and unafraid, he found himself
standing awkward and ill-at-ease in the presence of this woman.

Had she addressed him in Greek or Egyptian, he would have accepted it as
a matter of course. But when she did speak it was in the soft, clear
tones of a well-bred Englishwoman, and what she said was commonplace
enough.

"I suppose you've called to see about the place?" she asked.

"Ye-es," stammered Simpkins, but with wit enough to know that he had