by the burning question of obesity.  They flatter, and they will pay any price for flattery.  They are never sincere, not even with themselves; they never, during the whole of their existence, utter a sincere word, even in anger they coldly exaggerate.  They are always frothing at the mouth with ecstasy.  They adore everything, including God; go to church carrying a prayer-book and hymn-book in separate volumes, and absolutely fawn on the daughter.  They are stylish—­ and impenetrable.  But there is something about them very wistful and tragic.

In another social stratum, Miss Annie Brett might have been such a woman.  Without doubt nature had intended her for the role.  She was just a little ample, with broad shoulders and a large head and a lot of dark chestnut hair; a large mouth, and large teeth.  She had earrings, a brooch, and several rings; also a neat originality of cuffs that would not have been permitted to an ordinary barmaid.  As for her face, there were crow’s-feet, and a mole (which had selected with infinite skill a site on her chin), and a general degeneracy of complexion; but it was an effective face.  The little thing of twenty-three or so by her side had all the cruel advantages of youth and was not ugly; but she was ‘killed’ by Annie Brett.  Miss Brett had a maternal bust.  Indeed, something of the maternal resided in all of her that was visible above the zinc.  She must have been about forty; that is to say, apparently older than the late Simon Fuge.  Nevertheless, I could conceive her, even now, speciously picturesque in a boat at midnight on a moonstruck water.  Had she been on the stage she would have been looking forward to ingenue parts for another five years yet—­such was her durable sort of effectiveness.  Yes, she indubitably belonged to the ornamental half of the universe.

‘So this is one of them!’ I said to myself.

I tried to be philosophical; but at heart I was profoundly disappointed.  I did not know what I had expected; but I had not expected that.  I was well aware that a thing written always takes on a quality which does not justly appertain to it.  I had not expected, therefore, to see an odalisque, a houri, an ideal toy or the remains of an ideal toy; I had not expected any kind of obvious brilliancy, nor a subtle charm that would haunt my memory for evermore.  On the other hand, I had not expected the banal, the perfectly commonplace.  And I think that Miss Annie Brett was the most banal person that it has pleased Fate to send into my life.  I knew that instantly.  She was a condemnation of Simon Fuge.  She, one of the ‘wonderful creatures who had played so large a part’ in the career of Simon Fuge!  Sapristi!  Still, she was one of the wonderful creatures, etc.  She had floated o’er the bosom of the lake with a great artist.  She had received his homage.  She had stirred his feelings.  She had shared with him the magic of the night.  I might decry her as I would; she had known how to cast a spell over him—­she and the other one!  Something there in her which had captured him and, seemingly, held him captive.