rose to help the
ladies out. Mrs. Wishart had no time to think about it, and on the
sudden impulse yielded. They left the car, and a few steps brought them
to the immense beautiful building called the Imperial Hotel. Mr.
Dillwyn took them in as one at home, conducted them to the great
dining-room; proposed to them to go first to a dressing-room, but this
Mrs. Wishart declined. So they took places at a small table, near
enough to one of the great clear windows for Lois to look down into the
Avenue and see all that was going on there. But first the place where
she was occupied her. With a kind of wondering delight her eye went
down the lines of the immense room, reviewed its loftiness, its
adornments, its light and airiness and beauty; its perfection of
luxurious furnishing and outfitting. Few people were in it just at this
hour, and the few were too far off to trouble at all the sense of
privacy. Lois was tired, she was hungry; this sudden escape from din
and motion and dust, to refreshment and stillness and a soft
atmosphere, was like the changes in an Arabian Nights' enchantment. And
the place was splendid enough and dainty enough to fit into one of
those stories too. Lois sat back in her chair, quietly but intensely
enjoying. It never occurred to her that she herself might be a worthy
object of contemplation.

Yet a fairer might have been sought for, all New York through. She was
not vulgarly gazing; she had not the aspect of one strange to the
place; quiet, grave, withdrawn into herself, she wore an air of most
sweet reserve and unconscious dignity. Features more beautiful might be
found, no doubt, and in numbers; it was not the mere lines, nor the
mere colours of her face, which made it so remarkable, but rather the
mental character. The beautiful poise of a spirit at rest within
itself; the simplicity of unconsciousness; the freshness of a mind to
which nothing has grown stale or old, and which sees nothing in its
conventional shell; along with the sweetness that comes of habitual
dwelling in sweetness. Both her companions occasionally looked at her;
Lois did not know it; she did not think herself of sufficient
importance to be looked at.

And then came the luncheon. Such a luncheon! and served with a delicacy
which became it. Chocolate which was a rich froth; rolls which were
puff balls of perfection; salad, and fruit. Anything yet more
substantial Mrs. Wishart declined. Also she declined wine.

"I should not