There was a marble Flora, whose hands were filled with
purple heliotropes--in fact, every beauty that money, taste or luxury
could suggest, was there. Pale pink was a color that Lady Amelie
loved--her chairs and couches were covered with it. She is sitting now
in a pretty, fantastic chair, the subdued rosy light of the room falling
full upon her. She is reading the fashionable daily paper, smiling as
some on dits meet her eye. Surely such beauty as that should be
immortal. No wonder that Basil Carruthers, whose eyes had never rested
long on a woman's face before, should not weary of hers.
It is the beauty of an empress, royal, commanding, statuesque, yet
radiant and full of grace. Her figure, as she reclines, is perfection;
the soft, flowing lines, the gracious curves, the free, unfettered
grace, the queenly dignity, all combined, enchant one. The head, whose
contour is simply perfect, is crowned with a mass of dark hair, shining
like the lustrous wing of some rare bird. The brow is white, rounded at
the temples and clear as the leaf of the lily. The brows are straight,
delicate and have in them wonderful expression. But it was Lady Amelie's
eyes that drew men so irresistibly to her feet. They were irresistible.
Black, with a languid, golden light in their wondrous depths; full of
veiled fire and repressed passion. They could melt and flash, persuade
and command, as no other eyes did.
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