And she was not--no, certainly not--"pretty," and by no means "to the multitude" beautiful, though the word describes less inadequately than a poorer one the impression she made on the "some;" an impression which after knowledge of her, never lessened or effaced. She was not very tall, though of what used to be considered more than average height for a woman: nothing in or about her was startling or even striking. Her features, though in almost perfect proportion--perhaps for that very reason--never provoked admiration of their individual merits; her eyes, clear and sweet, could light up with affection or with occasionally a flash of consciousness almost approaching the inspiration of genius, into rare beauty; her whole face, her whole personality, spoke above all of simple yet powerful goodness, the true, large-hearted, thoughtful goodness of a noble woman. At this time Hertha Norreys was twenty-eight. The Maryon sisters--for Maryon was their surname--sat, as I said, in more than silence, while the wonderful--yes, wonderful I must call them in their perfect purity and sweetness--notes floated over them; now in joyousness, now in pathos, to die away at last in unutterable regret, as dies the wind on an autumn evening. She was encored, of course. Though not in the first ranks of vocalists, for her voice was of no astounding compass, Miss Norreys was allowed on all hands to be "very good, very good indeed in her way," and in herself she was a favourite with many, though not with all; so it was the proper thing, especially on an occasion like the present, when she gave her services gratuitously, to applaud her heartily. And till she had reappeared and sung again the last verse of the ballad, neither Winifred nor Celia spoke or moved. Then came--from Celia--the first half-timid words. "I am so glad she sang the last verse over again," she whispered. "Anything else would have spoilt it." "Of course," said Winifred, and her tone was a little impatient. But in a moment, ashamed of her hastiness, she spoke again. "Oh, Celia," she said, "I am not cross. But I seem so--so worked up. Isn't she _wonderful_? Not her singing only--and after all, I know you understand music better than I do--but the whole of her, her face, her way of moving, even her dress! It was just perfect." "Blue-grey bengaline--that lovely shade," said Celia, in whom there was now and then a queer, sudden matter-of-fact-ness which a superficial observer would rather have expected to find in Winifred. "And it fitted so well--so naturally, you know."