“The imitation marionettes. You’ve seen them at little theatres in Italy. They’re actors who imitate puppets. Men and women who try to behave as if they weren’t human, as if they were made of starch and whalebone, instead of flesh and blood.” “Ah, yes,” she assented, with another little laugh. “That would be rather typical of our insular methods. But do you know what an engaging, what a reviving spectacle you presented, as you stood there flourishing your hat? What do you imagine people thought? And what would have happened to you if I had just chanced to be a policeman instead of a friend?” “Would you have clapped your handcuffs on me?” he enquired. “I suppose my conduct did seem rather suspicious. I was in the deepest depth of dejection. One must give some expression to one’s sorrow.” “Are you going towards Kensington?” she asked, preparing to move on. “Before I commit myself, I should like to be sure whether you are,” he replied. “You can easily discover with a little perseverance.” He placed himself beside her, and together they walked towards Kensington. She was rather taller than the usual woman, and slender. She was exceedingly well-dressed; smartly, becomingly; a jaunty little hat of strangely twisted straw, with an aigrette springing defiantly from it; a jacket covered with mazes and labyrinths of embroidery; at her throat a big knot of white lace, the ends of which fell winding in a creamy cascade to her waist (do they call the thing a jabot?); and then.... But what can a man trust himself to write of these esoteric matters? She carried herself extremely well, too: with grace, with distinction, her head held high, even thrown back a little, superciliously. She had an immense quantity of very lovely hair. Red hair? Yellow hair? Red hair with yellow lights burning in it? Yellow hair with red fires shimmering through it? In a single loose, full billow it swept away from her forehead, and then flowed into half-a-thousand rippling, crinkling, capricious undulations. And her skin had the sensitive colouring, the fineness of texture, that are apt to accompany red hair when it’s yellow, yellow hair when it’s red. Her face, with its pensive, quizzical eyes, it’s tip-tilted nose, it’s rather large mouth, and the little mocking quirks and curves the lips took, was an alert, arch, witty face; a delicate high-bred face; and withal a somewhat sensuous, emotional face; the face of a woman with a vast deal of humour in her soul, a vast deal of mischief; of a woman who would love to tease you, and mystify you, and lead you on, and put you off; and yet who, in her own way, at her own time, would know supremely well how to be kind. But it was mischief rather than kindness that glimmered in her eyes at present, as she asked, “You were in the deepest depths of dejection. Poor man! Why?” “I can’t precisely determine,” said he, “whether the sympathy that seems to vibrate in your voice is genuine or counterfeit.”