The form before me was that of a very young and beautiful woman—­so beautiful that for a moment all my thought seemed to be concentrated upon her.  But I saw, too, that all was not well with her.  She was not at peace with herself, or her surroundings.  In her great wide eyes there was a look of pain, and of rebellious pain.  She was attired in a robe that was a blaze of colour; and when I wondered at this, for it was unlike the clear hues, pearly grey and gold, and soft roseate light that had hitherto encompassed me, the voice of Amroth answered my unuttered question, and said, “It is the image of her thought.”  Her slim white hands moved aimlessly over the robe, and seemed to finger the jewels which adorned it.  Her lips were parted, and anything more beautiful than the pure curves of her chin and neck I had seldom seen, though she seemed never to be still, as Amroth was still, but to move restlessly and wearily about.  I knew by a sort of intuition that she was unaware of Amroth and only aware of myself.  She seemed startled and surprised at the sight of me, and I wondered in what form I appeared to her; in a moment she spoke, and her voice was low and thrilling.

“I am so glad,” she said in a half-courteous, half-distracted way, “to find some one in the place to whom I can speak.  I seem to be always moving in a crowd, and yet to see no one—­they are afraid of me, I think; and it is not what I expected, not what I am used to.  I am in need of help, I feel, and yet I do not know what sort of help it is that I want.  May I stay with you a little?”

“Why, yes,” I said; “there is no question of ‘may’ here.”

She came up to me with a sort of proud confidence, and looked at me fixedly.  “Yes,” she said, “I see that I can trust you; and I am tired of being deceived!” Then she added with a sort of pettishness, “I have nowhere to go, nothing to do—­it is all dull and cold.  On earth it was just the opposite.  I had only too much attention and love....  Oh, yes,” she added with a strange glance, “it was what you would probably call sinful.  The only man I ever loved did not care for me, and I was loved by many for whom I did not care.  Well, I had my pleasures, and I suppose I must pay for them.  I do not complain of that.  But I am determined not to give way:  it is unjust and cruel.  I never had a chance.  I was always brought up to be admired from the first.  We were rich at my home, and in society—­you understand?  I made what was called a good match, and I never cared for my husband, but amused myself with other people; and it was splendid while it lasted:  then all kinds of horrible things happened—­scenes, explanations, a lawsuit—­it makes me shudder to remember it all; and then I was ill, I suppose, and suddenly it was all over, and I was alone, with a feeling that I must try to take up with all kinds of tiresome things—­all the things that bored me most.  But now it may be going to be better; you can tell me where I can find people, perhaps?  I am not quite unpresentable, even here?  No, I can see that in your face.  Well, take me somewhere, show me something, find something for me to do in this deadly place.  I seem to have got into a perpetual sunset, and I am so sick of it all.”