She turned her head to look at the portières, apparently anticipating sounds from beyond. He had a fine view of her profile. Leaning back in the divan, he made the most of the opportunity. It was a very pure, gentle face, full of strength and character and sweetness. Hardly the face, thought he, of one who had trained for any length of time in the set affected by the new Mrs. De Foe. Her hair was dark and fine and came low about her temples. It was all her own, he was quite sure, and there was an abundance of it. A small ear peeped invitingly out at him--somewhat timidly, he felt, as if he were a very wicked person to be shunned. Her neck was round and slim, her shoulders white and almost velvety in their healthy youthfulness. Somewhat to his amazement, there were no bones in evidence; and yet she was slender. He laid this phenomenon to perfect health, a condition heretofore regarded as perfectly unfeminine. Her cheeks were warm and clear, her lips red and almost tremulous in their sweetness; her eyes were--well, he could not see them, but he quite certainly remembered that they were blue. The nose--a very patrician nose--recalled to his mind one that he had seen in a very famous portrait somewhere, sometime. He had a vague recollection that it was some one's "Portrait of a Lady." Just as he was visually caressing the firm, white chin and throat, she turned upon him with a warning "Sh!" He already had decided that she was twenty-one and that her white satin evening gown was quite new and very exquisite. His intense gaze, caught red-handed, so to speak, confused her. She was not used to it: that was plain. He had the grace to look at the portières expectantly. "They are coming," she said, arising at once. "Can't you tell me more about the wedding?" he asked, standing beside her. "Not now. Later on, perhaps. You _do_ know her well enough to wish her happiness, don't you?" She added the last imploringly. "That's what I came here for--to insure her happiness," he said, smiling to himself. "You knew then?" she whispered in wonder. "I can't say that I knew that she was going to be married so soon," he replied evasively. "As a matter of fact, I didn't have De Foe in mind at all." Men and women, laughing, were approaching through the next room. "Do I know them?" he asked, nervously adjusting his monocle. She named a dozen people quickly. He nodded his head after each name. They were old friends, all of them. "And Mr. Rexford," she concluded. "Rexford? Who's he?" "He's from Pittsburg," she said, looking away. He studied the back of her head for a moment. "Oh, I see," he said, with a dry laugh. She faced him. "You are very much mistaken," she said. Bellows threw back the curtains and a group of very lively persons came crowding into the room.