Were they human at all, these dusk glories Of eyes? And their owner, was she A Swinburnian Lady Dolores, Or a sprite from some shadowy sea? A Cassandra at sea-trip and _soirée_, Or Proserpina visiting earth? Ah, what Harpy pursued her as quarry To strangle so mirth? Ah, but now I am wiser and sadder, And my spirit can never again At the sight of your fairness feel gladder, O ladies, who coolly obtain Our enamelled and painted complexion On conditions (which really are "style,") _You must never by day risk detection And nevermore smile._ "I don't see where the connection with Miss Friscoe comes in," said Lillie. "No? Why simply if she acquired an enamelled complexion, it might be the salvation of her, don't you see? Like Henry I., she could never smile again." Lillie smiled. Then producing a manuscript, she said: "I think you will be interested in this story of another of the candidates who applied during your expedition to the clouds. It is quite unique, and for amusement I have written it from the man's point of view." "May I come in?" interrupted the millionaire, popping his head through the door. "Are there any Old Maids here?" "Only me," said Lillie. "Oh, then, I'll call another time." "No, you may come in, father. Lord Silverdale and I have finished our business for the day. You can take that away with you and read it at your leisure, Lord Silverdale." The millionaire came in, but without _empressement_. That night Lord Silverdale, who was suffering from insomnia, took the manuscript to bed with him, but he could not sleep till he had finished it. * * * * *