Then a
woman walked in from the second drawing-room with an angry expression on
her face.
She was tall and slight. Her hair and eyes were light yellow-brown, and
the former had a natural wave in it. Her shoulders and bust were superb,
and her small head was beautifully set on a lovely, rather long, neck.
She had an oval face, with straight, delicate features, now slightly
distorted by temper. But the most remarkable thing about her was her
complexion. Her skin was exquisite, delicately smooth and white, warmly
white like a white rose. She did nothing to add to its natural beauty,
though nearly every woman in London declared that she had a special
preparation and always slept in a mask coated thickly with it. The Bond
Street oracles never received a visit from her. She had been born with an
enchanting complexion, a marvellous skin. She was young, just
twenty-four. She let herself alone because she knew improvement--in that
direction--was not possible. The mask coated with Juliet paste, or
Aphrodite ivorine, existed only in the radiant imaginations of her
carefully-arranged acquaintances.
In appearance she was a siren. By nature she was a siren too. But she had
a temper and sometimes showed it. She showed it now.
As she walked in slowly all the scattered people leaned forward,
murmuring their thanks, and the men stood up and gathered round her.
"Beautiful! Beautiful!" muttered the thin, elderly man in a hoarse voice,
striking his fingers repeatedly against the palms of his withered hands.
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