awkins, handing Mr. Windsor a
photograph. "What do you think of her?"

Mr. Windsor looked at the picture with a peculiar smile.

"She is a fine woman, Jawkins. We have as fine, however, in the States.
Who is she?"

"Mrs. Oswald Carey, to be sure. Have you never seen her face before, Mr.
Windsor? She is considered to be the most beautiful woman in London. Her
husband, of course, is left there; he cares only for brandy and soda and
baccarat, and would be very much in the way. I believe that he used to
have a place under government, but was ousted last year, probably for
cause, wonderful as that seems now. But she is a charming woman, and I
find that she is the most sought after of any one on my list--that is to
say, with the hosts; though the hostesses sometimes object to her,
simply from envy of her good looks, for her good name cannot be
questioned while her husband is satisfied with her."

Mr. Windsor hummed a little; he was too new to the world of society not
to have old-fashioned views on the subject of a woman's fame.

"Go on with the list, please, Jawkins; time flies, and your presence
must be required to arrange the drawing-rooms."

"Very well, Mr. Windsor. Then Sir John Dacre, one of the biggest men in
England; I never have understood, sir, how I got him on my list. He is
so proud that I should have fancied that he would have--saving your
presence, sir--have broken stones in the street rather than bread as a
hired guest. For he is a noble fellow."

"Some woman at the bottom of it?" asked Mr. Windsor, carelessly.

"Something mysterious, certainly, for he absolutely refused to take any
fee," replied Mr. Jawkins. "Next comes Colonel Charles Featherstone, a
wild, scatter-brained soldier, who lost all his fortune in speculation
in your American cotton and grain futures. He is a great friend of John
Dacre, and they joined me at the same time. I am really giving you the
gems of my whole collection."

A flush of triumph spread over the man's round face as he continued his
list. "Next, I have three of the 'artiste' class, and here I am not so
successful, though to be sure I pick them up for almost nothing. There
is Erastus Prouty, who does the satirical 'society' articles and
collects fashionable gossip for the _Saturday Review_, a sniggering,
sneering chap, with a single eye-glass and immense self-conceit. He
called me a cad in his paper once, but I am above personal feeling, and
do not cut the man off from his