It is the beauty of an empress, royal, commanding, statuesque, yet radiant and full of grace.  Her figure, as she reclines, is perfection; the soft, flowing lines, the gracious curves, the free, unfettered grace, the queenly dignity, all combined, enchant one.  The head, whose contour is simply perfect, is crowned with a mass of dark hair, shining like the lustrous wing of some rare bird.  The brow is white, rounded at the temples and clear as the leaf of the lily.  The brows are straight, delicate and have in them wonderful expression.  But it was Lady Amelie’s eyes that drew men so irresistibly to her feet.  They were irresistible.  Black, with a languid, golden light in their wondrous depths; full of veiled fire and repressed passion.  They could melt and flash, persuade and command, as no other eyes did.  No man ever looked into their depths without losing himself there.  Her mouth was no less beautiful, tender and sensitive; yet those lovely lips could curl with scorn that withered and pride that crashed.

She knew that she was beautiful, and she rejoiced in her beauty, as the lion in his strength or the serpent in its cunning.  Men she looked upon as her natural vassals, her subjects, her lawful prey.  She never once, in the whole course of her triumphant life, paused to think whether or not she inflicted pain.  If any one had said to her, abruptly, “You have made such a person suffer,” she would have laughed gaily.  The ache and pain of honest hearts is incense to a coquette.

And Lady Amelie Lisle was a coquette to the very depth of her heart!  She could have counted her victims by the hundred.  Who ever saw her and did not love her?  She delighted in this universal worship; it became necessary to her as the air she breathed.  Universal dominion was her end and aim; but once sure of a man’s love or admiration, it became worthless to her and she longed for something fresh.  Like Alexander, she would have conquered worlds.

Not, be it understood, that Lady Amelie, as she expressed it, “ever went in for anything serious.”  She had never been in love in her life, except with herself, and to that one affection she was most constant.  She accepted all, but gave none.  Once or twice her flirtations had been on the verge, but Lady Amelie was one of those who can look very steadily over the brink but never fall in.

The world spoke well of her.  “She was certainly a great coquette,” people said, indulgently, but then she was so beautiful and so much admired.  She smiles as she reads the fashionable intelligence; there is a paragraph describing her appearance at a ball given by one of the queens of society.  The paper speaks of her beauty, her magnificent dress and costly jewels.  She remembered all the homage, the sighs, the whispered words, the honeyed compliments, smiled and thought how sweet life was.

At that moment her maid entered.  “My lady,” she said.  “Colonel Mostyn would be so much obliged if you could see him.  It is on important business.”