“No, no,” she said, with a grateful smile.  “At least not more than usual.”  Her smile was full of pensive sweetness, which made her face beautiful.  It was a face that would have been almost plain but for the soul behind.  It was dark, with great earnest eyes.  The profile was disappointing, the curves were not perfect, and there was a reminder of Polish origin in the lower jaw and the cheek-bone.  Seen from the front, the face fascinated again, in the Eastern glow of its coloring, in the flash of the white teeth, in the depths of the brooding eyes, in the strength of the features that yet softened to womanliest tenderness and charm when flooded by the sunshine of a smile.  The figure was petite and graceful, set off by a simple tight-fitting, high-necked dress of ivory silk draped with lace, with a spray of Neapolitan violets at the throat.  They sat in a niche of the spacious and artistically furnished drawing-room, in the soft light of the candles, talking quietly while Addie played Chopin.

Mrs. Henry Goldsmith’s aesthetic instincts had had full play in the elaborate carelessness of the ensemble, and the result was a triumph, a medley of Persian luxury and Parisian grace, a dream of somniferous couches and arm-chairs, rich tapestry, vases, fans, engravings, books, bronzes, tiles, plaques and flowers.  Mr. Henry Goldsmith was himself a connoisseur in the arts, his own and his father’s fortunes having been built up in the curio and antique business, though to old Aaron Goldsmith appreciation had meant strictly pricing, despite his genius for detecting false Correggios and sham Louis Quatorze cabinets.

“Do you suffer from headaches?” inquired Raphael solicitously.

“A little.  The doctor says I studied too much and worked too hard when a little girl.  Such is the punishment of perseverance.  Life isn’t like the copy-books.”

“Oh, but I wonder your parents let you over-exert yourself.”

A melancholy smile played about the mobile lips.  “I brought myself up,” she said.  “You look puzzled—­Oh, I know!  Confess you think I’m Miss Goldsmith!”

“Why—­are—­you—­not?” he stammered.

“No, my name is Ansell, Esther Ansell.”

“Pardon me.  I am so bad at remembering names in introductions.  But I’ve just come back from Oxford and it’s the first time I’ve been to this house, and seeing you here without a cavalier when we arrived, I thought you lived here.”

“You thought rightly, I do live here.”  She laughed gently at his changing expression.

“I wonder Sidney never mentioned you to me,” he said.

“Do you mean Mr. Graham?” she said with a slight blush.

“Yes, I know he visits here.”

“Oh, he is an artist.  He has eyes only for the beautiful.”  She spoke quickly, a little embarrassed.

“You wrong him; his interests are wider than that.”

“Do you know I am so glad you didn’t pay me the obvious compliment?” she said, recovering herself.  “It looked as if I were fishing for it.  I’m so stupid.”