She paused and looked at me intently.  Instinctively I shrank into myself.  She seemed to be in some swift, clear-sighted way taking my measure, and labeling the visible marks of my personality.  Then she came graciously forward, her step reminding me, in its smooth, gliding motion, of some graceful animal of the jungle that might both fascinate and slay you.

Her eyes were of that dark, velvety blue, that under strong emotion turns to purple, and when she chose could melt and appeal like a dumb creature’s, whose only means of communicating their wants is through their eyes.  The lashes were long and curved; her complexion delicate as a rose leaf, with a fitful color vanishing and re-appearing in the peachy cheek apparently as she willed it.  Her hair, a rare tint of golden auburn was wreathed around her head in heavy coils that reminded me of the aureoles the old masters painted about the beautiful Madonna faces.  Her mouth, I concluded, was the one defect in the otherwise perfect face.  The teeth were natural and purely white, but long, and sharp, reminding one in a disagreeable way of the fangs of an animal of prey; the lips, a rich scarlet, were too thin, and tightly drawn for a judge of faces to admire; the chin was clear-cut and firm—­a face on the whole, I decided, that might drive a man, snared by its beauty, to desperation.  There was passion and power both lurking behind the pearl-tinted mask.

Her attitudes were the perfection of grace—­apparently, too, of unstudied grace, which is the mark of the highest art in posing.  She sat in a purple velvet easy-chair, whose trying color set off her fine complexion perfectly.  Her voice was low and well modulated, but it had no sympathetic chords; and therefore I could not call it musical or pleasing.  She thanked me in very exaggerated terms for having responded to her appeal.

I exclaimed, rather impulsively, in reply—­

“I expected to find the author of that pathetic letter in great distress, and came, hoping to relieve; but I cannot be of any service here.”  I glanced around the luxuriously appointed room, and then let my eyes rest on her elaborate costume.

She smiled, “You are young, and have not yet learned that rags and poverty seldom go hand in hand with the bitterest experiences of life.”

“That is the only kind of trouble I am sufficiently experienced to meddle with.  For imaginary or abstract woe you should seek some older helper.  I would suggest Mrs. Flaxman.  She has more patience with refined mourners than I.”

“Mrs. Flaxman could do me no good.”

Tears stood in her eyes, making them more beautiful than ever, and quite softening my heart.

“Won’t you lay aside some of your wraps?  I shall feel then as if you will not desert me at any moment.  The room is warm, and they are only an incumbrance.”

I complied, and removed my hat and fur cloak, which were beginning to make me uncomfortably warm.  She wheeled another easy-chair and bade me take that; my eyes, grown suddenly keen, took in the fact that the velvet covering was suited to my complexion.