delicacy of proportion; even had the chin tilted less regally and the
eyes looked out under their long lashes with less serene queenliness,
though ready to twinkle at the instant into the merriment of a
mischief-loving child.

She was tall, but not too tall, lithe and slim and sinuous as a mermaid,
yet well enough rounded to make each delicate curve a charm, not merely
of promise but of fulfilment. She wore a flowing morning-gown that made
negligée seem to the suddenly intoxicated secretary the glorified
costume for a woman. It was a richly embroidered thing from China and on
her head was a crown of lace. Bristoll knew that its material name would
be a boudoir cap, but on her head it became a crown--no, it was too
filmy and ethereal for that: rather it was a sort of halo. Beneath it,
and imprisoning pale fire in its amber softness, escaped a truant mass
of curls. From the cap to the foamy whiteness of a lacy petticoat that
peeped out just above the silk-clad ankles, she was exquisite. And all
these things stamped themselves on young Carl Bristoll's brain as he
bowed. Then he realized the delicate white-and-pink glow of her
complexion and a marvelous pair of mismated eyes.

Later when trying to defend to his own sophisticated mind his
unaccountable loss of poise, he assured himself that it was these eyes.
They should have spoiled her beauty, just as any other thing that
destroyed symmetry of balance in form or color would have marred the
effect. Yet, on the contrary, they were gorgeous and wonderful, and when
he looked at them he felt as if he had plunged into some icy pool and
come out glowing.

"It is a pleasure indeed, Mr. Bristoll," she smiled when he had been
presented. "You see we must be good and informal friends since the--"