Whilst I was speculating vaguely on the probable character of this striking young lady, she slowly rose from her low seat and crossed the room.  Her eyes were wide open, but apparently fixed on space, and she moved with the slow, mechanical motion of a sleepwalker.  To my intense surprise she came straight towards me, and stood in an expectant attitude about a yard from where I was sitting.  Not knowing exactly how to receive this advance, I jumped up and offered her my chair.  She waved it aside with a gesture of imperial scorn.  Her dark eyes positively flashed fire, and a rich glow flushed her pale olive cheek.  I could see that I had deeply offended her.

“I must apologise,” I began nervously, “but I thought you might be tired.”

Before the words were fairly spoken, I realised the full imbecility of this remark.  My only excuse for making such a fatuous observation was that the near vicinity of this weird beauty had paralysed my reasoning faculties, so that I hardly knew what I was saying.  And then she spoke in a low, rich voice which thrilled me through every nerve.  I could not understand the meaning of her words, or even recognise the language in which they were spoken.  But the tone of her voice was unutterably sad, like an inarticulate wail of despair.  All the time her glorious eyes were resting on me as if she would read my inmost thoughts, whilst I responded with an idiotic smile of embarrassment.  Even now, after the lapse of years, it makes me hot all over to think of that moment.

I don’t know how long I had been standing looking like a fool, when Miss Latouche turned away as abruptly as she had approached and walked straight to the door.  With a sigh of relief I sank down on the despised chair.  After a few moments I gained sufficient courage to glance round and assure myself that no spectators had witnessed my discomfiture.  It was a great relief to find that the entire party had migrated to the further end of the room, where a funny little man was singing comic songs with a banjo accompaniment.  I slipped in next my host, who was thoroughly enjoying the performance.

“Encore!  Capital!  Give us some more of it, Tommy,” he roared when the song came to an end.  “That’s my sort of music, isn’t it yours, Carew?” he added, turning to me.

“A very clever performance,” I answered stiffly, divided between my natural abhorrence of comic songs and the difficulty of making a candid reply in the immediate vicinity of the funny man.

“Just so.  That’s what I call really clever,” said Maitland, not perceiving my lack of enthusiasm.  “Worth a dozen of those melancholy tunes on the harp, in my opinion.  By-the-bye, what’s become of Miss Latouche?  Couldn’t stand this sort of thing, I suppose.  Too merry for her.  What a pity such a handsome girl should mope so.”

“Miss Latouche appears to be rather eccentric,” I interposed.  “Something of a genius, I imagine?”