dress, a marvel of discretion, its colour the yellow of old ivory, was of some very rich and stiff stuff cut square to her neck; that, and her great black hair, clustered to a crimson rose at the top of her head, made the pallor of her face a thing to marvel at. Her beauty was at once sombre and illuminating, and youthful no less. The woman of thirty: but her complexion, and her arms, which were bare, were soft in texture as a young girl's. I made my way as well as I could for the crowd, to my hostess, listened, with what patience I might, to some polite praise of my playing, and made my request. 'Mrs. Destrier, I have an immense favour to ask; introduce me to Madame Romanoff!' She gave me a quick, shrewd smile; then I remembered stories of her intimate quaintness. 'My dear young man! I have no objection. Only I warn you, she is not conversational; you will make no good of it, and you will be disappointed; perhaps that will be best. Please remember, I am responsible for nobody.' 'Is she so dangerous?' I asked. 'But never mind; I believe that I have something to say which may interest her.' 'Oh, for that!' she smiled elliptically; 'yes, she is most dangerous. But I will introduce you; you shall tell me how you succeed.' I bowed and smiled; she laid a light hand on my arm; and I piloted her to the desired corner. It seemed that the chance was with me. The little fluent Provençal had just vacated his seat; and when the prima-donna had acknowledged the hasty mention of my name, with a bare inclination of her head, I was emboldened to succeed to it. And then I was silent. In the perfection of that dolorous face, I could not but be reminded of the tradition which has always ascribed something fatal and inevitable to the possession of great gifts: of genius or uncommon fortune, or singular personal beauty; and the common-place of conversation failed me. After a while she looked askance at me, with a sudden flash of resentment. 'You speak no French, Monsieur! And yet you write it well enough; I have read your stories.' I acknowledged Madame's irony, permitted myself to hope that my efforts had met with Madame's approval. '_A la bonne heure!_ I perceive you also speak it. Is that why you wished to be presented, to hear my criticisms?' 'Let me answer that question when you have answered mine.' She glanced curiously over her feathered fan, then with the slightest upward inclination of her statuesque shoulders--'I admire your books; but are your women quite just? I prefer your playing.' 'That is better, Madame! It was to talk of that I came.' 'Your playing?' 'My violin.' 'You want me to look at it? It is a Cremona?' 'It is not a Cremona; but if you like, I will give it you.' Her dark eyes shone out in amazed amusement.