complexion. Her skin was exquisite, delicately smooth and white, warmly
white like a white rose. She did nothing to add to its natural beauty,
though nearly every woman in London declared that she had a special
preparation and always slept in a mask coated thickly with it. The Bond
Street oracles never received a visit from her. She had been born with an
enchanting complexion, a marvellous skin. She was young, just
twenty-four. She let herself alone because she knew improvement--in that
direction--was not possible. The mask coated with Juliet paste, or
Aphrodite ivorine, existed only in the radiant imaginations of her
carefully-arranged acquaintances.

In appearance she was a siren. By nature she was a siren too. But she had
a temper and sometimes showed it. She showed it now.

As she walked in slowly all the scattered people leaned forward,
murmuring their thanks, and the men stood up and gathered round her.

"Beautiful! Beautiful!" muttered the thin, elderly man in a hoarse voice,
striking his fingers repeatedly against the palms of his withered hands.

The young man looked at the singer and said nothing; but the anger in her
face was reflected in his, and mingled with a flaming of sympathy that
made his appearance almost startling. The white-haired woman clasped the
singer's hands and said, "Thank you, dearest!" in a thrilling voice, and
the little dark woman with the red fan cried out, "Viola, you simply pack
up Venice, carry it over the Continent and set it down here in London!"

Lady Holme frowned slightly.

"Thank you, thank you, you good-natured dears," she said with an attempt