At that moment, sprawling upon a chair, with his great yellow-gloved hands awkwardly clasped, he was talking with a very beautiful woman, whose unusual face--much animation upon features of a severe cast--was noticeable by reason of its pallor among the surrounding pretty faces, just as her dress, all white, classic in its draping and moulded to her graceful, willowy figure, contrasted with much richer costumes, not one of which had its character of bold simplicity. De Gery, from his corner, gazed at that smooth, narrow forehead beneath the fringe of hair brushed low, those long, wide-open eyes of a deep blue, an abysmal blue, that mouth which ceased to smile only to relax its classic outline in a weary, spiritless expression. All in all, the somewhat haughty aspect of an exceptional being. Some one near him mentioned her name--Felicia Ruys. Thereupon he understood the rare attraction of that girl, inheritress of her father's genius, whose new-born celebrity had reached as far as his province, with the halo of a reputation for great beauty. While he was gazing at her, admiring her slightest movement, a little puzzled by the enigma presented by that beautiful face, he heard a whispered conversation behind him. "Just see how affable she is with the Nabob! Suppose the duke should come!" "Is the Duc de Mora expected?" "To be sure. The party is given for him; to have him meet Jansoulet." "And you think that the duke and Mademoiselle Ruys--" "Where have you come from? It's a liaison known to all Paris. It dates from the last Salon, for which she did his bust." "And what about the duchess?" "Pshaw! she has seen many others. Ah! Madame Jenkins is going to sing."