likes a person or not without her saving a word
—I could formerly, I mean, vwhen she was more
susceptible to impressions than she is now. It's
just the same in my uncle's case; and I knew,
in a minute, he didn't like Mrs. P. Ireton
Bernbridge."

"Where is she staying? At the 'Quatre
Saisons,' I suppose?"

"No," said George; "she has one of the
Schwazchild houses. You know them, Mrs.
Routh?"

"Yes, I know them," said Harriet. "I saw
the Frau Schwazchild yesterday, rejoicing in a
pink parasol with a coral handle, set with
turquoises in clumps."

"That's the woman. Shouldn't wonder if
the parasol were a waif from the wardrobe of
Mrs. P. Ireton Bembridge. She has, then, one of
those huge houses for herself and her
attendants."

"Did she tell you all this in the ball–room?"

"All this? Bless your innocence, she got
through such trivialities as these in about two
minutes. I might have heard her whole history,
and P. Ireton's, no doubt, particulars of his
last illness—if he had a last illness—included,
if I had asked her to dance. And, by Jove!"
said George, starting up and pushing back the
muslin curtain which impeded Harriet's view of
the street somewhat, "there she is, coming
down the street in a pony–carriage, and looking
like a whole triumphal procession on one set
of wheels."

Harriet looked out with an assumption of
more curiosity than she felt. In a low, elegant,
but rather over–ornamented equipage, drawn by
two grey ponies, likewise rather over–ornamented,
but very handsome and of great value,
sat a lady of beauty as undeniable as that of her
horses, and elegance as striking as that of her
carriage. Woman like, Harriet remarked the
magnificence of her dress before she noticed the
beauty of her face, set off as it was by the aid
of the most perfect hat and feather ever put
together by the milliner's art. That beauty was
at once of the correct and the sparkling order.
Her features were of statuesque regularity, but
they had all the piquant brilliancy of rich,
glowing, passionate life. Cheeks and lips
flushed with the full colour of health, masses of
hair of the darkest, glossiest brown coiled up
in endless braids and rolls under the inimitable
hat; eyes so dark that to call them black was
a venial exaggeration; teeth which shone like
jewels; and in the face, the air, over the whole
person and equipment of the woman, from the wrists
outstretched over the reins she held, and on which
broad bands of jewels flashed, to the tip of the
satin boot which protruded beneath the silken
carriage–wrap spread daintily over her knees, an
intolerable consciousness and domineering
boldness which was simply odious. Her ponies
were stepping leisurely; her glittering eyes were
looking right and left, as though she were
searching for some one among the scattered
groups she passed, and every member of which
stared at her without disguise. As much of
her dress as could be seen was a magnificent
mixture of satin and lace and jewels, and even
in her dress there was a daring, reckless
something, indefinable but distinct, which made the
gazers feel that in staring at her there was no
offence.

"Stunning, isn't she, Mrs. Routh? I beg
your pardon for the slang, but there is really no
other word. Blinding, dazzling, and all the rest
of it."

"Stunning, certainly, George," said Harriet,
smiling; "but, somehow, I don't think you care
particularly to be stunned."

"Not in the least. She is not a bit my
style;" and George, thinking of what "his
style was, and how widely it differed from the
triumphant figure in the ornate carriage out
there, let the muslin curtain drop, and turned
away from the window. Harriet sat down and
took up her work.

"A woman whom men would love for a little
while, and hate bitterly after, I fancy; but
whom women would hate at once, and always."

Mrs. P. Ireton Bembridge had not found
among the loungers in the town the individual
whom her bright black eyes were seeking, when
George Dallas and Harriet Routh had marked
her from the window. She had driven rapidly
away past the gardens and the Schloss, and
when fully two miles outside the town she
overtook a gentleman sauntering leisurely along,
with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, and
his moody eyes fixed upon the ground. The
carriage was close upon him before he looked
round, though the sound made by the wheels
and the trotting horses had been distinct in the
clear air, as they came along the empty road.
Then he turned and greeted the lady with
effusion. In a moment he had taken his place
beside her, and was whirled away into the green
and golden distance of the forest, under the
brow crest of Taunus.

"How very odd that you should know him,"
said the gorgeous lady of the pony–carriage to
the gentleman seated beside her, as she walked
her ponies along a shady road, where the slim
trees stood on guard on either side, and the
fallen leaves rustled under the wheels.

"Not so very odd. He is a near relative of
one of my most intimate friends."

"Ah, his nephew, I suppose you mean, a tall
young man with good eyes, and a remarkably
rich expression of countenance."

"I recognise the description certainly, and it
is not flattering. That is the individual; his
name is Dallas."

"A booby, I'm convinced. How he can be
an intimate friend of yours I cannot understand."
She said this rather sulkily, which, by
adding to its character of sincerity, made the
indirect flattery in which she was a proficient
all the more delicious. Her companion's eyes
flashed with pleasure as he turned them upon
her with a look which she did not raise her
eyes to receive, but which dyed her cheek a
deeper rose tint than before. Then she went on: