‘The curious part of the story’ he said, in conclusion, ‘is that nobody ever considered the lady pretty till she burst all at once upon society as the one perfect creature that the world had seen since the Venus was dug up at Milo. She never was thought so in her own world. No one was more surprised than her own family when she was elected queen of beauty, unless it was herself. Her mother never suspected it. At school she was considered rather plain than otherwise. They say she was married off early because she was the dowdy of the family, and now she cannot take her drive in the park without all London craning its neck and straining its eyes to get a look at her. When she goes into society the women stand upon chairs to stare at her over other people’s shoulders. I suppose they want to find out how it’s done. This kind of popularity may seem very pleasant in the abstract, but I think it’s rather hard upon the lady.’ ‘Why hard upon her?’ inquired John Treverton. ‘Because there’s no salary goes with the situation. The belle of the season ought to get something to lighten the expenses of her year of office like the Lord Mayor. See what is expected of her! Every eye is upon her. Every woman in London looks to her as a model of taste and elegance, and eagerly strives to dress after her. How is she to put a limit upon her milliner’s bill, when she knows that all the society journals are lying in wait to describe her last gown, to eulogise her newest bonnet, to write an epigram upon her parasol, to be ecstatic about her boots. Can she ride in a hired carriage? No. Can she be absent from Goodwood, or missing at Cowes? No. She must die standing. I say that since she furnishes the public with interest and amusement--much better than the Lord Mayor does, by the way--she ought to get a handsome allowance out of the public purse.’ When he had exhausted pictures, and reigning beauties, and the winner of the Leger, Edward began to talk about crime. ‘People in London have a knack of wearing a subject to tatters,’ he said. ‘I thought neither the newspapers nor the public would ever get tired of talking about the Chicot murder.’ ‘The Chicot murder. Ah, that was the ballet dancer, was it not?’ inquired Lady Barker, who was so interested in this vivacious young man on her right hand, that she had hardly given due attention to Mr. Treverton, who was on her left. ‘I remember feeling rather interested in that mystery. A diabolical murder, certainly. And how stupid the police must have been not to find the murderer.’ ‘Or how clever the murderer to sink his identity so completely as to give the police the slip,’ suggested Edward. ‘Oh, but he must have got away to the Colonies, or somewhere, surely,’ cried Lady Barker. ‘There are so many vessels leaving England now-a-days. You don’t imagine for a moment that the murderer of that wretched woman remained in England?’