every allowance. The poor thing could no more help being plain and
dowdy than born in Boston, and as their leader had satisfied herself
that she "would do," they would never let her know how deeply they
deplored her disabilities.

But they found nothing to deplore but the agonizing necessity for
immediate readjustment. Mrs. Talbot was unquestionably a product of
the best society. The South could have done no better. She was tall
and supple and self-possessed. She was exquisitely dressed in dark
blue velvet with a high collar of point lace tapering almost to her
bust, and revealing a long white throat clasped at the base by a
string of pearls. On her head, as proudly poised as Mrs. McLane's,
was a blue velvet hat, higher in the crown than the prevailing
fashion, rolled up on one side and trimmed only with a drooping gray
feather. And her figure, her face, her profile! The young men crowded
forward more swiftly than the still almost paralyzed women. She was
no more than twenty. Her skin was as white as the San Francisco fogs,
her lips were scarlet, her cheeks pink, her hair and eyes a bright
golden brown. Her features were delicate and regular, the mouth not
too small, curved and sensitive; her refinement was almost excessive.
Oh, she was "high-toned," no doubt of that! As she moved forward and
stood in front of Mrs. McLane, or acknowledged introductions to those
that stood near, the women gave another gasp, this time of
consternation. She wore neither hoop-skirt nor crinoline. Could it be
that the most elegant fashion ever invented had been discarded by
Paris? Or was this lovely creature of surpassing elegance, a law unto
herself?

Her skirt was full but straight and did not disguise the lines of
her graceful figure; above her small waist it fitted as closely as a