h, melodious voice, tinged by an
inflection that was half ironical, half bewildered.

"I was saluting the type of English beauty," he answered, turning.
"Fortunately, there are divergencies from it," he added, as he met the
puzzled smile of his interlocutrice; a puzzled smile, indeed, but, like
the voice, by no means without its touch of irony.

She gave a little laugh; and then, examining the models critically,
"Oh?" she questioned. "Would you call that the type? You place the type
high. Their features are quite faultless, and who ever saw such
complexions?"

"It's the type, all the same," said he. "Just as the imitation
marionette is the type of English breeding."

"The imitation marionette? I'm afraid I don't follow," she confessed.

"The imitation marionettes. You've seen them at little theatres in
Italy. They're actors who imitate puppets. Men and women who try to
behave as if they weren't human, as if they were made of starch and
whalebone, instead of flesh and blood."

"Ah, yes," she assented, with another little laugh. "That _would_ be
rather typical of our insular methods. But do you know what an engaging,
what a reviving spectacle you presented, as you stood there flourishing
your hat? What do you imagine people thought? And what would have
happened to you if I had just chanced to be a policeman instead of a
friend?"

"Would you have clapped your handcuffs on me?" he inquired. "I suppose
my conduct did seem rather suspicious. I was in the deepest depths of
dejection. One must give some expression to one's sorrow."

"Are you going towards Kensington?" she asked, preparing to move on.

"Before I commit myself, I should like to be sure whether you are," he
replied.

"You can easily discover with a little perseverance."

He placed himself beside her, and together they walked towards
Kensington.

She was rather taller than the usual woman, and slender. She was
exceedingly well-dressed; smartly, becomingly; a jaunty little hat of
strangely twisted straw, with an aigrette springing defiantly from it; a
jacket covered with mazes and labyrinths of embroidery; at her throat a
big knot of white lace, the ends of which fell winding in a creamy
cascade to her waist (do they call the thing a _jabot_?); and then....
But what can a man trust himself to write of these esoteric matters? She
carried herself extremely well, too: with grace, with distinction, her
head held high, even thrown back a little, supercilio