ul; they are still handsome at a distance of twelve feet.
They are rather effusive; they think they know life, when as a fact
their instinctive repugnance for any form of truth has prevented them
from acquiring even the rudiments of the knowledge of life. They are
secretly preoccupied by the burning question of obesity. They flatter,
and they will pay any price for flattery. They are never sincere, not
even with themselves; they never, during the whole of their existence,
utter a sincere word, even in anger they coldly exaggerate. They are
always frothing at the mouth with ecstasy. They adore everything,
including God; go to church carrying a prayer-book and hymn-book in
separate volumes, and absolutely fawn on the daughter. They are
stylish--and impenetrable. But there is something about them very
wistful and tragic.

In another social stratum, Miss Annie Brett might have been such a
woman. Without doubt nature had intended her for the role. She was just
a little ample, with broad shoulders and a large head and a lot of dark
chestnut hair; a large mouth, and large teeth. She had earrings, a
brooch, and several rings; also a neat originality of cuffs that would
not have been permitted to an ordinary barmaid. As for her face, there
were crow's-feet, and a mole (which had selected with infinite skill a
site on her chin), and a general degeneracy of complexion; but it was
an effective face. The little thing of twenty-three or so by her side
had all the cruel advantages of youth and was not ugly; but she was
'killed' by Annie Brett. Miss Brett had a maternal bust. Indeed,
something of the maternal resided in all of her that was visible above
the zinc. She must have been about forty; that is to say, apparently
older than the late Simon Fuge. Nevertheless, I could conceive her,
even now, speciously picturesque in a boat at midnight on a moonstruck
water. Had she been on the stage she would have been looking forward to
ingenue parts for another five years yet--such was her durable sort of
effectiveness. Yes, she indubitably belonged to the ornamental half of
the universe.

'So this is one of them!' I said to myself.

I tried to be philosophical; but at heart I was profoundly
disappointed. I did not know what I had expected; but I had not
expected THAT. I was well aware that a thing written always takes on a
quality which does not justly appertain to it. I had not expected,
therefore, to see an odalisque, a houri, an ideal t