Now I am a middle-aged bachelor of quiet tastes, and nothing annoys me more than when my friends poke ponderous fun at me in this fashion.  So, ignoring Maitland’s facetious suggestion, I calmly walked forward and shook hands with my hostess.  She greeted me with her customary cordiality, and in about two minutes I was feeling perfectly at home in spite of my dusty clothes.  I now had an opportunity of examining the other guests, who were dispersed in groups about the room.  Most of them were people I had frequently met before under the Maitlands’ hospitable roof, but the face which had first arrested my attention was that of an absolute stranger.

“I see you are admiring Miss Latouche, like the rest of us,” said Mrs. Maitland in a low voice.  “Such a talented girl!  She can play positively any kind of instrument, and has persuaded me to have the old harp taken out of the lumber-room and put in order for her.  She looks so well playing it, doesn’t she?  Quite like Cleopatra or the Queen of Sheba!”

“She is undoubtedly handsome in a certain style,” I replied cautiously.  “I don’t know whether I admire such a gipsy type myself—­”

“Ah, you agree with me then,” interrupted my hostess eagerly.  “I call it an uncomfortable sort of beauty for a drawing-room.  She always looks as if she might produce a dagger at a moment’s notice, as the people do in operas.  Give me a nice simple girl with a pretty English face, like my niece Lily Wallace over there!  But I am bound to say Miss Latouche makes a great sensation wherever she goes.  Of course she has wonderful powers.”

I was about to inquire in what these powers consisted, when Mrs. Maitland was called away.  Left to myself, I could not repress a smile at the comparison she had instituted between her own niece and the beautiful stranger.  Lily was well enough, a good-tempered pink and white girl, who in twenty years’ time would develop into just such another florid matron as her aunt.  And then I looked again at Miss Latouche.

She was seated a little apart from the rest, one white arm hanging listlessly over the harp upon which she had just been playing.  Her large dark eyes had a far-away look of utter abstraction from all sub-lunary matters that I have never seen in anyone besides.  Masses of wavy black hair were loosely coiled over her head, round a high Spanish comb, and half concealed her brow in a dusky cloud.  At first sight the black velvet dress, which swept around her in heavy folds, seemed rather an unsuitable costume for so young a girl.  But its sombreness was relieved by a gorgeous Indian scarf, thrown carelessly over the shoulders.  I do not know who was responsible for Miss Latouche’s get-up, or if she really required an extra wrap.  At any rate, the combination of colours was very effective.