She was accompanied and sometimes assisted by Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer, professional readers both--the last distinguished more for grace and beauty, even though now on the wane of life, than she ever had been for talent, but eminently fitted, both by education and character, for a guide and companion. An English maid, as perfect as an automaton in her training and regularity, accompanied Bertie, to whom were confided all details of dress, all keys and jewels, with entire confidence and safety. An elaborate doll seemed the red-and-white and stupidly-staring Euphemia. Yet was she adroit, obedient, and expert, just to move in the groove of her requirements. I have spoken only of her accessories; but now for Bertie herself. "Is she not magnificent?" was my exclamation when alone with my husband on the night of her arrival, after our guest, with her sparkling face and conversation, her superb toilet and bearing, her graceful, nymph-like walk, had retired to her chamber, attended by the mechanical "Miss Euphemia." The Mortimers, with their children and servants, remained at the principal hotel. "The very word for her," he replied; "only that and nothing more." "Wardour!" "Well, love!" "How little enthusiasm you possess about the beautiful! Now, if there were question of a new railroad-bridge, the vocabulary would have been exhausted." "What would you have me say, dear? Is not that word a very comprehensive one? The lady above-stairs is indeed magnificent; but, Miriam, where is Bertie?" and he laughed. "Ah! I understand; you find her artificial." "She is too fine an actress for that, Miriam; only transfigured." "Yes, I see what you mean" (sadly). "Bertie _is_ wholly changed. Whom does she resemble, Wardour? What queen, bethink you, whose likeness you have seen? Not Mary Queen of Scots--not Elizabeth--" "No, surely not; but she is, now that you draw my attention to it, strikingly like Marie Antoinette." "She said she would be, and she has succeeded!" and I mused on the wonderful transition. Four years more, and we heard of Bertie in England, as the rarely-gifted and beautiful American reader, "Lavinia La Vigne." Out of the _repertoire_ of her family names she had fished up this alliteration, and "Bertie" was reserved for those behind the scenes. It was declared also in the public sheets, what great and distinguished men were in her train; how wits bowed to her wit, and authors to her criticisms! But, when she wrote to me, she said nothing of all this, only telling of her visit to Mrs. Shelley, who had received her kindly, and to the tomb of Shakespeare, whose painted effigy she especially derided. "It looks indeed like a man who would cut his wife off with an old feather-bed and a teakettle," was one of her characteristic remarks, I remember; but there was a little postscript that told the whole story of her life, on a separate scrap of paper meant only for my eye I clearly saw, and committed instantly to the flames after perusal: