an up to Paris on just such errands as my present one.
She had given me thus now and then glimpses of her feverish
life--gleams from the facets, since her success in Paris was as
brilliant as a diamond. Occasionally I would meet her in the shaded
alleys, but always in sight of her brougham, which kept pace with her
whims at a safe but discreet distance.

There was a rare perfection about her lithe, graceful person, an ease
and subtlety of line, an allure which was satisfying--from her trim
little feet gloved in suede, to the slender nape of her neck, from which
sprang, back of the loveliest of little ears, the exquisite sheen of her
blonde hair.

There were mornings when she wore a faultless tailor-made of plain dark
blue and carried a scarlet parasol, with its jewelled handle held in a
firm little hand secreted in spotless white kid.

I noticed, too, in passing that her eyes were deep violet and
exceedingly alert, her features classic in their fineness. Once I saw
her smile, not at me, but at her fox terrier. It was then that I caught
a glimpse of her young white teeth--pearly white in contrast to the
freshness of her pink and olive skin, so clear that it seemed to be
translucent, and she blushed easily, having lived but a score of springs
all told.

In the afternoon, when she drove in her brougham lined with dove-gray,
the scarlet parasol was substituted by one of filmy, creamy lace,
shading a gown of pale mauve or champagne colour.

I had heard that she was passionately extravagant, that she seldom, if
ever, won at the races--owned a little hotel with a carved facade in the
Avenue du Bois, a villa at Dinard, and three fluffy little dogs, who
jingled their gold bells when they followed her.

She dined at Paillard's, sometimes at the Cafe de la Paix, rarely at
Maxim's; skated at the Palais de Glace on the most respectable
afternoons--drank plain water--rolled her own cigarettes--and possessed
a small jewel box full of emeralds, which she seldom wore.

_Voila!_ A spoiled child for you!

There were mornings, too, when, after her tub, as early as nine, she
galloped away on her cob to the _Bois_ for her coffee and hot _brioche_
at the Pre Catelan, a romantic little farm with a cafe and a stableful
of mild-eyed cows that provide fresh milk to the weary at daylight, who
are trying hard to turn over a new leaf before the next midnight. Often
she came there accompanied by her groom and the three little dogs with
the