The second room differed in no way from the first, except in the matter of heat. The beautiful stranger floated in--her face all the lovelier for the faint rosy flush that glowed through the clear skin. If Mrs Ray Jefferson's admiration was envious, at least it was genuine. She had never really believed in perfect feminine beauty before--beauty that shone supreme without the aid of dress and frippery--but here it was--a glowing and palpable fact. The simple white drapery with its border of scarlet floated with the grace of its own perfect simplicity around that perfect form, and never was royal mantle more splendid than the rippling hair that crowned her head and fell in its luxuriance of curls and waves to her feet. As they again seated themselves side by side, Mrs Jefferson remembered that she was not yet acquainted with the nationality of the stranger. She hastened to repair the error of such ignorance. "You speak English wonderfully for a foreigner," she said; "it would puzzle anyone to make out where you were raised--Russian, I surmise?" "No," said the stranger, quietly, "though I have lived there a great deal. It was my husband's country." Mrs Jefferson looked radiant. She was married, then. That was something to have learnt. "_Was_,"--she said quickly, "Is he not living then?" "No." The beautiful face grew a shade paler. "I would rather not talk about it," she said. "His death was very tragic and terrible." "I'm sorry," said the little American, with ready contrition; "don't think I'm curious," she added, suddenly, "but one doesn't see a woman like you every day. I surmise you'll make a sensation in the hotel." "I have my own private rooms here," was the quiet response. "I shall not mix with the other visitors." "Oh," cried Mrs Jefferson, her face clouding, "I call that cruel. There are really some very good people here--titles, if you like them-- money, if you care for that--one or two geniuses--a musician and a poet who are working for a future generation, because they can't get appreciated here--and the usual crowd of mediocrities. Oh, you really must come to our evenings; they'd amuse you immensely. We're quite dependent on ourselves for society. This is the dullest of dull holes, still we manage to get a bit spry not and then. Now, you--why, if you'd only show yourself to be looked at, you'd be doing the whole hotel a good turn." The stranger shook her head. "Society never amuses me," she said. "It has nothing to offer that can rival the charms of books, art, and solitude. I possess all three." Mrs Jefferson opened her eyes wide. "The first and the last," she said, "are comprehensible as travelling companions, but what about the middle one?"