s marble, with a cloudlet of delicate locks wreathing
round it, the nose straight and clean cut, the lips inclined to
thinness, the chin and lower jaw beautifully rounded off, and yet
sufficiently developed to promise unusual strength of character.

But those eyes--those wonderful eyes! If I could but give some faint
idea of their varying moods, their steely hardness, their feminine
softness, their power of command, their penetrating intensity suddenly
melting away into an expression of womanly weakness--but I am speaking
now of future impressions!

There was a tall, yellow-haired young man with this lady, whom I at once
recognised as a law student with whom I had a slight acquaintance.

Archibald Reeves--for that was his name--was a dashing, handsome young
fellow, and had at one time been a ringleader in every university
escapade; but of late I had seen little of him, and the report was that
he was engaged to be married. His companion was, then, I presumed, his
fiancee. I seated myself upon the velvet settee in the centre of the
room, and furtively watched the couple from behind my catalogue.

The more I looked at her the more her beauty grew upon me. She was
somewhat short in stature, it is true; but her figure was perfection,
and she bore herself in such a fashion that it was only by actual
comparison that one would have known her to be under the medium height.

As I kept my eyes upon them, Reeves was called away for some reason,
and the young lady was left alone. Turning her back to the pictures, she
passed the time until the return of her escort in taking a deliberate
survey of the company, without paying the least heed to the fact that
a dozen pair of eyes, attracted by her elegance and beauty, were bent
curiously upon her. With one of her hands holding the red silk cord
which railed off the pictures, she stood languidly moving her eyes from
face to face with as little self-consciousness as if she were looking at
the canvas creatures behind her. Suddenly, as I watched her, I saw her
gaze become fixed, and, as it were, intense. I followed the direction of
her looks, wondering what could have attracted her so strongly.

John Barrington Cowles was standing before a picture--one, I think, by
Noel Paton--I know that the subject was a noble and ethereal one.
His profile was turned towards us, and never have I seen him to such
advantage. I have said that he was a strikingly handsome man, but at
that moment he looked