glance around, and entered the seat pointed out to her.

The young girl was Cytherea Graye; her age was now about eighteen.
During her entry, and at various times whilst sitting in her seat
and listening to the reader on the platform, her personal appearance
formed an interesting subject of study for several neighbouring
eyes.

Her face was exceedingly attractive, though artistically less
perfect than her figure, which approached unusually near to the
standard of faultlessness. But even this feature of hers yielded
the palm to the gracefulness of her movement, which was fascinating
and delightful to an extreme degree.

Indeed, motion was her speciality, whether shown on its most
extended scale of bodily progression, or minutely, as in the
uplifting of her eyelids, the bending of her fingers, the pouting of
her lip. The carriage of her head--motion within motion--a glide
upon a glide--was as delicate as that of a magnetic needle. And
this flexibility and elasticity had never been taught her by rule,
nor even been acquired by observation, but, nullo cultu, had
naturally developed itself with her years. In childhood, a stone or
stalk in the way, which had been the inevitable occasion of a fall
to her playmates, had usually left her safe and upright on her feet
after the narrowest escape by oscillations and whirls for the
preservation of her balance. At mixed Christmas parties, when she
numbered but twelve or thirteen years, and was heartily despised on
that account by lads who deemed themselves men, her apt lightness in
the dance covered this incompleteness in her womanhood, and
compelled the self-same youths in spite of resolutions to seize upon