I think I liked this lady thoroughly at a glance and felt at home with her, for I know the type. It is the mobile, artistic type, with not much practical judgment in great matters, but bubbling with enthusiasm, temperament, life. “Certainly--delighted. I know too little of London to talk of it. I shall be interested in your picture.” We had reached the main floor by this time. “Mr. Der_riz_er, the Lady R.” A modern suggestion of the fair Jahane, tall, astonishingly lissom, done--as to clothes--after the best manner of the romanticists--such was the Lady R. A more fascinating type--from the point of view of stagecraft--I never saw. And the languor and lofty elevation of her gestures and eyebrows defy description. She could say, “Oh, I am so weary of all this,” with a slight elevation of her eyebrows a hundred times more definitely and forcefully than if it had been shouted in stentorian tones through a megaphone. She gave me the fingers of an archly poised hand. “It is a pleasure!” “And Miss H., Mr. Der_riz_er.” “I am very pleased!” A pink, slim lily of a woman, say twenty-eight or thirty, very fragile-seeming, very Dresden-china-like as to color, a dream of light and Tyrian blue with some white interwoven, very keen as to eye, the perfection of hauteur as to manner, so well-bred that her voice seemed subtly suggestive of it all--that was Miss H. To say that I was interested in this company is putting it mildly. The three women were so distinct, so individual, so characteristic, each in a different way. The Lady R. was all peace and repose--statuesque, weary, dark. Miss H. was like a ray of sunshine, pure morning light, delicate, gay, mobile. Mrs. W. was of thicker texture, redder blood, more human fire. She had a vigor past the comprehension of either, if not their subtlety of intellect--which latter is often so much better. Mr. W. stood in the background, a short, stocky gentleman, a little bored by the trivialities of the social world. “Ah, yes. Daygah! You like Daygah, no doubt,” interpolated Mrs. W., recalling us. “A lovely pigture, don’t you think? Such color! such depth! such sympathy of treatment! Oh!” Mrs. W.’s hands were up in a pretty artistic gesture of delight. “Oh, yes,” continued the Lady R., taking up the rapture. “It is saw human--saw perfect in its harmony. The hair--it is divine! And the poor man! he lives alone now, in Paris, quite dreary, not seeing any one. Aw, the tragedy of it! The tragedy of it!” A delicately carved vanity-box she carried, of some odd workmanship--blue and white enamel, with points of coral in it--was lifted in one hand as expressing her great distress. I confess I was not much moved and I looked quickly at Miss H. Her eyes, it seemed to me, held a subtle, apprehending twinkle. “And you!” It was Mrs. W. addressing me. “It is impressive, I think. I do not know as much of his work as I might, I am sorry to say.”