The woman was in the middle, and between the proud and distinguished figure of Barclay and the small, insignificant one of her other escort, she presented a striking appearance. She was of a large, full build, verging on embonpoint, but still showing a restrained luxuriance of outline. A dress of white lace clothed her tightly and swept in creamy billows over the carpet behind her. It was cut in a square at her neck, and the sleeves ended at her elbows, revealing a throat and forearms of milky whiteness. This ivory purity of skin was noticeable in her face, which was firmly modeled, rather heavy in feature, and crowned with a coronet of lusterless black hair. She was hardly handsome, but there was something sensational, arresting, slightly repelling, in the sleepy and yet vivid vitality that seemed to emanate from her. “Who is it?” said June in a low voice. “What a curious looking woman!” The Colonel, who had been surveying the new-comers, looked at his companion with eyes in which there was a slight veiled coldness. The same quality was noticeable in his voice: “Her name’s Newbury, Mrs. William Newbury. Her husband’s a banker here.” “Is that her husband with her, that little man?” “Yes.” “But he’s so old! He looks like her father. What did she marry him for?” “I don’t know. I’m not her father-confessor. He’s got a good deal of money, I believe.” The Colonel did not seem interested in the subject. He picked up June’s fan and said, “How did you like the young fellow who had this chair just now, Stanley Davenport? He’s the last unmarried child my old friend has left.” The girl’s eyes, however, had followed the new-comers with avid, staring curiosity, and she said, “Very much. Are Mrs. Newbury and her husband great friends of Mr. Barclay’s?” “I believe they are. I don’t know much about her. I know her husband in business. He’s a little dried up, but he’s a first-rate fellow in the main.” “Is she an American? She looks so queer and foreign.” “Spanish, Spanish-Californian. She and her sister were two celebrated beauties here about twelve years ago. Their name was Romero--Carmen and Guadalupé Romero--and they were very poor. Their grandfather had been a sort of a Shepherd King, owned a Spanish grant about as big as a European principality, and when the Gringo came traded off big chunks of it for lengths of calico and old firearms and books he couldn’t read. The girls were friends of Mrs. Davenport’s only daughter Annie, and she gave them a start. Carmen--she was the elder of the two--married an Englishman, a man of position and means that she met in this house. She lives over in England. This one--Lupé--married Newbury about ten years ago.” “Do you think she’s pretty?” asked June, anxious to have her uncertainty on this point settled by what she regarded as expert opinion.