hat canons of beauty, I wonder?" Matravers remarked. "I
hold myself a very poor judge of woman's looks, but I can at least
recognize the classical and Renaissance standards. The beauty which
this woman possesses, if any, is of the decadent order. I do not
recognize it. I cannot appreciate it!"

Ellison laughed softly. He had a marvellous belief in this woman and
in her power of attracting.

"You are not a woman's man, Matravers, or you would know that her
beauty is not a matter of curves and colouring! You cannot judge her
as a piece of statuary. All your remarks you would retract if you
talked with her for five minutes. I am not sure," he continued, "that
I dare not warrant you to retract them before this evening is over. At
least, I ask you to stay. I will run my risk of your pulverization."

The curtain rang up again, the play proceeded. But not the same
play--at least, so it seemed to Matravers--not the same play, surely
not the same woman! A situation improbable enough, but dramatic, had
occurred at the very beginning of the second act. She had risen to the
opportunity, triumphed over it, electrified her audience, delighted
Ellison, moved Matravers to silent wonder. Her personality seemed to
have dilated with the flash of genius which Matravers himself had been
amongst the first to recognize. The strange pallor of her face seemed
no longer the legacy of ill-health; her eyes, wonderfully soft and
dark, were lit now with all manner of strange fires. She carried
herself with supreme grace; there was not the faintest suspicion of
staginess in any one of her movements. And more wonderful than
anything to Matravers, himself a delighted worshipper of the beautiful
in all human sounds, was that marvellously sweet voice, so low and yet
so clear, expressing with perfect art the highest and most hallowed
emotions, with the least amount of actual sound. She seemed to pour
out the vial of her wrath, her outraged womanhood in tones raised
little above a whisper, and the man who fronted her seemed turned into
the actual semblance of an ashamed and unclean thing. Matravers made
no secret now of his interest. He had drawn his chair to the front of
the box, and the footlights fell full upon his pale, studious face
turned with grave and absolute attention upon the little drama working
itself out upon the stage. Ellison in the midst of his jubilation
found time to notice what to him seemed a somewhat singular incident.
In crossing