Fuchsia Bliss was an orphan, absolutely independent in every sense of the word, who looked considerably younger than her real age, and appeared so small and so fragile that, like thistledown, she might almost be blown away.  Nevertheless, she was anything but light, in either head or purse.  Fuchsia was not pretty; indeed, to be honest, was barely good-looking.  Her complexion was colourless, her thick hair a dull, ashen shade, her eyes, though remarkably lively, were much too small, her chin, on the other hand, was much too long.  Beautifully marked brows, white teeth, and a fairy figure, were her assets; and, as she herself said, “she had plenty of snap!” Miss Bliss was uncommonly shrewd and vivacious.  Her friends (these were many) were somewhat afraid of Fuchsia’s plain speaking (her thoughts were too close to her tongue); she professed to be enormously interested in Burma and found it such a quaint old country, declared that the pagodas were “too sweet for words,” and the Burmese women “just the dearest, daintiest, best tricked out, little talking dolls!”

(A cynical critic might have compared Miss Fuchsia herself to a “talking doll.”)

“America,” she announced, “was a brand-new nation, bubbling over with energy and vim, whilst this drowsy old Eastern land was most deliciously restful and ancient—­it made a nice change.”

Down at the bottom of a good-sized heart Miss Fuchsia was aware that it was not altogether an admiration for the East which detained her lingering in Burma.  For the first time in her life the pale-faced heiress was seriously interested in one of the other sex.  This fortunate man happened to be Patrick FitzGerald, of the Burmese Police; a fellow without a penny beyond his pay, but well set up, self-possessed, and handsome; a capital partner, a congenial spirit, and a complete contrast to herself.

The couple now approached Shafto and his companion, FitzGerald, rather warm, mopping his good-looking face, Miss Bliss, tripping airily beside him, in an exquisite green toilet, still—­as always—­talking.

“Only think—­he has got to go!” she announced with a dramatic gesture, halting in front of Sophy as she spoke.  “Isn’t it too—­too awfully provoking?  He has been sent for, right now in the middle of the ball—­engaged to me for two more waltzes, supper and an extra, and here am I, side-tracked!”

“A true bill—­I am off,” said FitzGerald, with a significant glance at Shafto; “I leave Miss Bliss and my reputation in your hands.”

“Miss Bliss can take good care of herself,” she announced, sitting down.

“No doubt of that,” assented Shafto; “all the same, Miss Leigh and I will attend Miss Bliss to supper.”

“No, no,” she protested, “I have planned to take in Mr. Gregory.”

“That is if you can get hold of him,” argued her late partner; “he is playing bridge.”

“Oh well, anyway, I shan’t go begging!” said Fuchsia, leaning back on the lounge and crossing her tiny, exquisitely shod feet.