so young or so well. His color
was fine, his face had become almost boyish; upon his skin and
in his eyes was that gloss of perfect health which until these
latter days of scientific hygiene was rarely seen after
twenty-five in a woman or after thirty in a man. She gathered
in all, to the smallest detail--such as the color of his
shirt--with a single quick glance. She knew that he had seen
her before she saw him--that he had been observing her. Her
happiest friendliest smile made her small face bewitching as
she advanced with outstretched hand.

"When did you come?" she asked.

"About an hour ago."

"From the Riviera?"

"No, indeed. From St. Moritz--and skating and skiing and
tobogganing. I rather hoped I looked it. Doing those things
in that air--it's being born again."

"I felt well till I saw you," said she. "Now I feel dingy and
half sick."

He laughed, his glance sweeping her from hat to boots.
Certainly his eyes could not have found a more entrancing
sight. She was wearing a beautiful dress of golden brown
cloth, sable hat, short coat and muff, brown suede boots laced
high upon her long slender calves. And when she had descended
from the perfect little limousine made to order for her, he
had seen a ravishing flutter of lingerie of pale violet silk.
The sharp air had brought no color to her cheeks to interfere
with the abrupt and fascinating contrast of their pallor with
the long crimson bow of her mouth. But her skin seemed
transparent and had the clearness of health itself. Everything
about her, every least detail, was of Parisian perfection.

"Probably there are not in the world," said he, "so many as a
dozen women so well put together as you are. No, not half a
dozen. Few women carry the art of dress to the point of genius."

"I see they had only frumps at St. Moritz this season,"
laughed she.

But he would not be turned aside. "Most of the well dressed
women stop short with being simply frivolous in spending so
much time at less than perfection--like the army of poets who
write pretty good verse, or the swarm of singers who sing
pretty well. I've heard of you many times this winter. You
are the talk of Paris."

She laughed with frank delight. It was indeed a pleasure to
discover that her pains had not been in vain.

"It is always the outsider who comes to the great city to show
it its own resources," he went on. "I knew you were going to
do this. Still happy?"

"Oh, yes