In her fresh morning toilette, with her pleasant smiles and frank ingenuous manner, the London actress took by storm the susceptible hearts of the literary gentlemen. They had come with the express intention of interviewing her, and, lo and behold, the most they could do was to utter little compliments and flattery, while most of their time was occupied in staring at her. But Mr. Duval, who knew exactly what was wanted, was not going to let slip such a golden opportunity, and went about from one to the other, answering such questions as he thought might have been propounded. 'What should I say her height was? About five feet five, I should think--a little taller, perhaps, with those new French heels, which set the foot off, but are deuced dangerous for walking. Ah, Willie Webster, you rascal,' whispering in the ear of a dirty little man in a wideawake, 'you're the lad for the ladies, and you're death on complexions, I know. Look at hers; look at the Montressor's. That's the real thing--none of your bismuth and pearl powder, but with the warm tinge on it which she has caught on her voyage from the sea and sun. Natural daughter of a most distinguished man, my dear Carter; blue blood, Norman descent, and all that sort of thing--look at it in her hands and feet, that's where the real breeding comes out. You don't care about noble descent in this country, I know--honesty, virtue, simple citizen, and all that kind of thing; but you do admire hands and feet, and most of your ladies have them in perfection.'