One was a lady about twenty-four years old, who, in the present repose of
her features, looked comely, sedate, and womanly, but not the remarkable
person she really was. Her forehead high and white, but a little broader
than sculptors affect; her long hair, coiled tight, in a great many
smooth snakes, upon her snowy nape, was almost flaxen, yet her eyebrows
and long lashes not pale but a reddish brown; her gray eyes large and
profound; her mouth rather large, beautifully shaped, amiable, and
expressive, but full of resolution; her chin a little broad; her neck and
hands admirably white and polished. She was an Anglo-Dane--her father
English.

If you ask me what she was doing, why--hunting; and had been, for some
days, in all the inns of Homburg. She had the visitors' book, and was
going through the names of the whole year, and studying each to see
whether it looked real or assumed. Interspersed were flippant comments,
and verses adapted to draw a smile of amusement or contempt; but this
hunter passed them all over as nullities: the steady pose of her head,
the glint of her deep eye, and the set of her fine lips showed a soul not
to be diverted from its object.

The traveler at her back had a map of the district and blank telegrams,
one of which he filled in every now and then, and scribbled a hasty
letter to the same address. He was a sharp-faced middle-aged man of
business; Joseph Ashmead, operatic and theatrical agent--at his wits'
end; a female singer at the Homburg Opera had fallen really ill; he was
commissioned to replace her, and had only thirty hours to do it in. So he
was hunting a singer. What the lady was hunting can never be known,
unless she should choose to reveal it.