Bright brown hair waved prettily back from a white forehead, clever, dark gray eyes and a lovely complexion--one of those complexions which, from a purity of conscience or a steadiness of nerve, never change.

Cheeks of a faint pink, an expressive, mobile mouth, a neck of dazzling white.

Such was Mrs.Sydney Bamborough, in the prime of her youth.
"And you maintain that it is five years since we met," she was saying to the tall Frenchman.
"Have I not counted every day ?" he replied.
"I do not know," she answered, with a little laugh, that little laugh which tells wise men where flattery may be shot like so much conversational rubbish.

Some women are fathomless pits, the rubbish never seems to fill them.

"I do not know, but I should not think so." "Well, madam, it is so.