looking out of unusually clear blue-green eyes. Her hair was of an ordinary
shade of dark brown, but fine and thick and admirably arranged to set off
her long, sensitive, high bred features. Her chin and mouth expressed
decision and strong emotions.

There was a vacant chair between Segur and Berersford and it was presently
filled by a fat, middle-aged woman, neither blonde nor brunette, with a
large, serene face. Upon it was written a frank confession that she had
never in her life had an original thought capable of creating a ripple of
interest. She was Mrs. Sidney, rich, of an "old" family--in the New York
meaning of the word "old"--both by marriage and by birth, much courted
because of her position and because she entertained a great deal both in
town and at a large and hospitable country house.

The conversation was lively and amused, or seemed to amuse, all. It was
purely personal--about Kittie and Nellie and Jim and Peggie and Amy and
Bob; about the sayings and doings of a few dozen people who constituted the
intimates of these five persons.

Mrs. Carnarvon turned to the silent Howard at last and began about the
weather.

"Horrible in the city, isn't it?"

"Well, perhaps it is," replied Howard. "But I fancied it delightful. You
see I have not lived anywhere but New York for so long that I am hardly
capable to judge."

"Why everybody says we have the worst climate in the world."