“She is a very great lady, Miss Hallam,” she had said to her nurse. “She’s the last of her kind I often think. Very great ladies seem to have gone out—if you know what I mean. They’ve gone out.” The Duchess had in fact said of Brent as she stood a few days later beside her coffin and looked down at her contentedly serene face, something not unlike what Brent had said of herself. “You were a good friend, Brent, my dear,” she murmured. “I shall always miss you. I am afraid there are no more like you left.” She was thinking of her all the morning as she drove slowly down to Bond Street and Piccadilly. As she got out of her carriage to go into a shop she was attracted by some photographs of beauties in a window and paused to glance at them. Many of them were beauties whom she knew, but among them were some of society’s latest discoveries. The particular photographs which caught her eye were two which had evidently been purposely placed side by side for an interesting reason. The reason was that the two women, while obviously belonging to periods of some twenty years apart as the fashion of their dress proved, were in face and form so singularly alike that they bewilderingly suggested that they were the same person. Both were exquisitely nymphlike, fair and large eyed and both had the fine light hair which is capable of forming itself into a halo. The Duchess stood and looked at them for the moment spell-bound. She slightly caught her breath. She was borne back so swiftly and so far. Her errand in the next door shop was forgotten. She went into the one which displayed the photographs. “I wish to look at the two photographs which are so much alike,” she said to the man behind the counter. He knew her as most people did and brought forth the photographs at once. “Many people are interested in them, your grace,” he said. “It was the amazing likeness which made me put them beside each other.” “Yes,” she answered. “It is almost incredible.” She looked up from the beautiful young being dressed in the mode of twenty years past. “This is—_was_—?” she corrected herself and paused. The man replied in a somewhat dropped voice. He evidently had his reasons for feeling it discreet to do so. “Yes—_was_. She died twenty years ago. The young Princess Alixe of X—” he said. “There was a sad story, your grace no doubt remembers. It was a good deal talked about.” “Yes,” she replied and said no more, but took up the modern picture. It displayed the same almost floating airiness of type, but in this case the original wore diaphanous wisps of spangled tulle threatening to take wings and fly away leaving the girl slimness of arms and shoulders bereft of any covering whatsoever. “This one is—?” she questioned.