My impressions were all subconscious, but registered exactly. She was the most exquisite production I had ever seen in human guise. Her perfection was that of some lovely little bird in which no color fails to shade harmoniously into some other color, in which no single feather is out of place. The word I used of her was _soignée_--that which is smoothed and curled and polished and caressed till there is not an eyelash which hasn't received its measure of attention. I don't mean that she was artificial, or that her effects were too thought out. She was no more artificial than a highly cultivated flower is artificial, or a many-faceted diamond, or a King Charles spaniel, or anything else that is carefully bred or cut or shaped. She was the work of some specialist in beauty, who had no aim in view but to give to the world the loveliest thing possible. When I had mastered my confusion sufficiently I sat down with the words, rather lamely spoken: "I didn't know any one was here. I hope I haven't kept you standing long." "No; but I was watching you. I came down only a few minutes after you did. You see, I was afraid--when we came away from Mrs. Rossiter's--that you might be unhappy." "I'm not as unhappy as I was," I faltered, without knowing what I said, and was rewarded to see her smile. It was an innocent smile, without glee, a little sad in fact, but full of unutterable things like a very young child's. I had never seen such teeth, so white, so small, so regular. "I'm glad of that," she said, simply. "I thought if some--some other woman was near you, you mightn't feel so--so much alone. That's why I watched round and followed you." I could have fallen at her feet, but I restricted myself to saying: "Thank you very much. It does make a difference." I got courage to add, however, with a smile of my own, "I see you know." "Yes, I know. I've thought about you a good deal since that day about a fortnight ago--you remember?" "Oh yes, I remember. I'm not likely to forget, am I? Only, you see, I had no idea--if I had, I mightn't have felt so--so awfully forlorn." Her eyes rested upon me. I can only say of them that they were sweet and lovely, which is saying nothing at all. Sweet and lovely are the words that come to me when I think of her, and they are so lamentably overworked. She seemed to study me with a child-like unconsciousness. "Yes," she said at last, "I suppose you do feel forlorn. I didn't think of that or--or I might have managed to come to you before." "That you should have come now," I said, warmly, "is the kindest thing one human being ever did for another." Again there was the smile, a little to one side of the mouth, wistful, wan. "Oh no, it isn't. I've really come on my own account." I waited for some explanation of this, but she only went on: "Tell me about yourself. How did you come here? Ethel Rossiter has never really said anything about you. I should like to know."