She was a slender woman, of medium height, with a small, well-poised head, on which the hair lay smooth and glossy. Her age was somewhere between thirty and thirty-five years. A stranger would have been first of all impressed by the imperious carriage of her head and shoulders, the repose of her attitude. Become a friend or a longer acquaintance, he would have noticed more particularly her wide low brow, her steady gray eyes and her grave but humorous lips. But inevitably he would have gone back at last to her more general impression. Ben Sansome, the only man in town who did nothing, made society and dress a profession and the judgment of women a religion, had long since summed her up: "She carries her head charmingly." This poised, wise serenity of carriage was well set off by the costume of the early fifties--a low collar, above which her neck rose like a flower stem; flowing sleeves; full skirts with many silken petticoats that whispered and rustled; low sandalled shoes, their ties crossed and recrossed around white slender ankles. A cameo locket, hung on a heavy gold chain, rose and fell with her breast; a cameo brooch pinned together the folds of her bodice; massive and wide bracelets of gold clasped her wrists and vastly set off her rounded, slender forearms. She stood quite motionless in the doorway, nodding with a little smile in response to the men's sweeping salutes. "You will excuse me gentlemen, I am sure," said Sherwood formally, and instantly turned aside. The woman in the doorway thereupon preceded him down a narrow, bare, unlighted hallway, opened another door, and entered a room. Sherwood followed, closing the door after him. "Want something, Patsy?" he inquired. The room was obviously one of the best of the Bella Union. That is to say, it was fairly large, the morning sun streamed in through its two windows, and it contained a small iron stove. In all other respects it differed quite from any other hotel room in the San Francisco of that time. A heavy carpet covered the floor, the upholstery was of leather or tapestry, wall paper adorned the walls, a large table supported a bronze lamp and numerous books and papers, a canary, in a brass cage, hung in the sunshine of one of the windows, flitted from perch to perch, occasionally uttering a few liquid notes under its breath. "Just a little change, Jack, if you have some with you," said the woman. Her speaking voice was rich and low. Sherwood thrust a forefinger into his waistcoat pocket, and produced one of the hexagonal slugs of gold current at that time. "Oh, not so much!" she protested. "All I've got. What are you up to to-day, Patsy?" "I thought of going down to Yet Lee's--unless there is something better to do." "Doesn't sound inspiring. Did you go to that fair or bazaar thing yesterday?" She smiled with her lips, but her eyes darkened. "Yes, I went. It was not altogether enjoyable. I doubt if I'll try that sort of thing again."