d and unknown, and
I immediately recognised that some other guest must have brought her and,
for want of opportunity, had as yet to call my attention to her. But two
things, simultaneously with this and with each other, struck me with
force; one of them the truth of Outreau's description of her, the other
the fact that the person bringing her could only have been Lady
Beldonald. She _was_ a Holbein--of the first water; yet she was also
Mrs. Brash, the imported "foil," the indispensable "accent," the
successor to the dreary Miss Dadd! By the time I had put these things
together--Outreau's "American" having helped me--I was in just such full
possession of her face as I had found myself, on the other first
occasion, of that of her patroness. Only with so different a
consequence. I couldn't look at her enough, and I stared and stared till
I became aware she might have fancied me challenging her as a person
unpresented. "All the same," Outreau went on, equally held, "_c'est une
tete a faire_. If I were only staying long enough for a crack at her!
But I tell you what"--and he seized my arm--"bring her over!"

"Over?"

"To Paris. She'd have a _succes fou_."

"Ah thanks, my dear fellow," I was now quite in a position to say; "she's
the handsomest thing in London, and"--for what I might do with her was
already before me with intensity--"I propose to keep her to myself." It
was before me with intensity, in the light of Mrs. Brash's distant
perfection of a little white old face, in which every wrinkle was the
touch of a master; but something else, I suddenly felt, was not less so,
for Lady Beldonald, in the other quarter, and though she couldn't have
made out the subject of our notice, continued to fix us, and her eyes had
the challenge of those of the woman of consequence who has missed
something. A moment later I was close to her, apologising first for not
having been more on the spot at her arrival, but saying in the next
breath uncontrollably: "Why my dear lady, it's a Holbein!"

"A Holbein? What?"

"Why the wonderful sharp old face so extraordinarily, consummately
drawn--in the frame of black velvet. That of Mrs. Brash, I mean--isn't
it her name?--your companion."

This was the beginning of a most odd matter--the essence of my anecdote;
and I think the very first note of the oddity must have sounded for me in
the tone in which her ladyship spoke after giving me a silent look. It
seemed to come to me out of