and a Trinity Hall tie. He looked
grotesquely British. The others were elaborately polite to him, and during
the soup they talked of the weather and the political situation. There was
a pause while they waited for the leg of mutton, and Miss Chalice lit a
cigarette.

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair," she said suddenly.

With an elegant gesture she untied a ribbon so that her tresses fell over
her shoulders. She shook her head.

"I always feel more comfortable with my hair down."

With her large brown eyes, thin, ascetic face, her pale skin, and broad
forehead, she might have stepped out of a picture by Burne-Jones. She had
long, beautiful hands, with fingers deeply stained by nicotine. She wore
sweeping draperies, mauve and green. There was about her the romantic air
of High Street, Kensington. She was wantonly aesthetic; but she was an
excellent creature, kind and good natured; and her affectations were but
skin-deep. There was a knock at the door, and they all gave a shout of
exultation. Miss Chalice rose and opened. She took the leg of mutton and
held it high above her, as though it were the head of John the Baptist on
a platter; and, the cigarette still in her mouth, advanced with solemn,
hieratic steps.

"Hail, daughter of Herodias," cried Cronshaw.

The mutton was eaten with gusto, and it did one good to see what a hearty
appetite the pale-faced lady had. Clutton and Potter sat on each side of
her, and everyone knew that neither had found her unduly coy. She grew
tired of most people in six weeks, but she knew exactly how to treat
afterwards the gentlemen who had laid their young hearts at her feet. She
bore them no ill-will, though having loved them she had ceased to do so,
and treated them with friendliness but without familiarity. Now and then
she looked at Lawson with melancholy eyes. The poires flambees were a
great success, partly because of the brandy, and partly because Miss
Chalice insisted that they should be eaten with the cheese.

"I don't know whether it's perfectly delicious, or whether I'm just going
to vomit," she said, after she had thoroughly tried the mixture.

Coffee and cognac followed with sufficient speed to prevent any untoward
consequence, and they settled down to smoke in comfort. Ruth Chalice, who
could do nothing that was not deliberately artistic, arranged herself in
a graceful attitude by Cronshaw and just rested her exquisite head on his
shoulder. She looked into the