e so
soft and fine that I felt as if I were walking on flowers. I remember
the sound of music from a room somewhere on the first floor, and the
scent of lilies and hyacinths that drifted from the conservatory. I
remember it all, every note of music, every whiff of fragrance; but most
vividly I remember Mrs. Vanderbridge as she looked round, when the door
opened, from the wood fire into which she had been gazing. Her eyes
caught me first. They were so wonderful that for a moment I couldn't see
anything else; then I took in slowly the dark red of her hair, the clear
pallor of her skin, and the long, flowing lines of her figure in a
tea-gown of blue silk. There was a white bearskin rug under her feet,
and while she stood there before the wood fire, she looked as if she had
absorbed the beauty and colour of the house as a crystal vase absorbs
the light. Only when she spoke to me, and I went nearer, did I detect
the heaviness beneath her eyes and the nervous quiver of her mouth,
which drooped a little at the corners. Tired and worn as she was, I
never saw her afterwards--not even when she was dressed for the
opera--look quite so lovely, so much like an exquisite flower, as she
did on that first afternoon. When I knew her better, I discovered that
she was a changeable beauty, there were days when all the colour seemed
to go out of her, and she looked dull and haggard, but at her best no
one I've ever seen could compare with her.

She asked me a few questions, and though she was pleasant and kind, I
knew that she scarcely listened to my responses. While I sat down at the
desk and dipped my pen into the ink, she flung herself on the couch
before the fire with a movement which struck me as hopeless. I saw her
feet tap the white fur rug, while she plucked nervously at the lace on
the end of one of the gold-coloured sofa cushions. For an instant the
thought flashed through my mind that she had been taking something--a
drug of some sort--and that she was suffering now from the effects of
it. Then she looked at me steadily, almost as if she were reading my
thoughts, and I knew that I was wrong. Her large radiant eyes were as
innocent as a child's.

She dictated a few notes--all declining invitations--and then, while I
still waited pen in hand, she sat up on the couch with one of her quick
movements, and said in a low voice, "I am not dining out to-night, Miss
Wrenn. I am not well enough."

"I am sorry for that." It was all I coul