She was a woman of thirty-eight. She did not look it when I was first admitted to her apartments. She then appeared to be a very demure little housewife of ten years less. It was in the afternoon and she was suitably attired to receive callers, and had she not been, I am of the opinion that she would have bowed graciously to the inevitable, and received me just the same, for she was one of those matter-of-fact souls who do not allow formality to interfere with pleasure. Not that she would appear in a soiled dressing sacque, or an old skirt which bore evidence of the various strains, neither would she be guilty of coming to the front with ragged shoes on those dainty feet; but to make a long story short, she was too considerate of a man’s “fussy feeling” to keep him waiting an hour or more while she labored before the mirror trying to obliterate the traces of time and increase the beauty of form. Ethel Manning had been and still was more comely than many women in more favorable circumstances. She was not so tall that she was striking, but the willowness of her figure seemed to add power to the face on which every thought was plainly visible before she allowed the red curve, commonly called mouth, to open in utterance. She spoke slowly, and as each word fell on one’s ear the evidence of the voice having been cultivated became more convincing. Her deep violet eyes were luminous and seemed to grow darker with the earnestness of her sentiment. Her chin was a trifle short, however one would at once decide that it was made that way to correspond with the nose, which, to one critically inclined, might seem to be abbreviated to a certain extent. All in all, she was one of those people who are all life and activity, yet possessed with the gift of discreet executive ability. If she had lacked anywhere in personal charms the deficit was supplied to one’s mind’s eye the moment one would glance at her hair. It was plentiful and seemed to cover her head with bright rippling waves which shimmered with every motion of the well poised head. Bright colors might have been more becoming to her winsome nature, but she was clad in black, some soft, clinging material on the crepe de chene order. The neatness of the design, the fine texture, and the correctness of the fit only added to the grace with which she wore it. “No doubt you would have been happier,” I said, as I handed the little tintype back to her. “I don’t know,” she said sweetly; “perhaps somebody would have been purer today.” “Well, Miss Manning, I am all attention and over anxious to hear your story.” “All right, I will tell you all I know, and think that is enough,” she said, as she cast her eyes downward.