daintily-clad figure had detached itself from a group of guests and came
running toward them. Mrs. Carmichael's deeply lined, somewhat severe face
lighted up.

"That is my husband's ward, Lois Caruthers," she said. "She has been with
me all her life, practically. As you are so fond of genuine India, you
must let her show you over the place. She knows all the dirtiest, and I
suppose most interesting corners, with their exact history."

"Delightful!" murmured Mrs. Cary, with a gracious nod of her plumed
headgear. Nevertheless, she studied the small figure and animated features
of the new-comer with a critical severity not altogether in accordance
with her next remark, uttered, apparently under pressure of the same
irresistible enthusiasm, in an audible side whisper: "What a sweet
face--so piquant!"

An adjective is a pliable weapon, and, in the hands of a woman, can be
made to mean anything under the sun. Mrs. Cary's "piquant"--pronounced
in a manner that was neither French nor English, but a startling mixture
of both--had a background to it of charitable patronage. It was meant,
without doubt, to be a varnished edition of "plain," perhaps even "ugly,"
though Lois Caruthers deserved neither insinuation. Possibly too small in
build, she was yet graceful, and there was a lithe, elastic energy in her
movements which drew attention to her even among more imposing figures.
Possibly, also, she was too dark for the English ideal. Her black hair and
large brown eyes, together with the unrelieved pallor of her complexion,
gave her appearance something that was exotic but not unpleasing. _Enfin,_
as most people admitted, she had her charm; and her moods, which ranged
from the most light-hearted gaiety to the deepest gravity, could be
equally irresistible. She was light-hearted enough now, however, as she