And La Belle Bolero, the Spanish dancer.
Yvonne Yvette, the French model.
And Olga Maronoff, the Russian poetess.
And then—with a bound of the heart, and a gasp of the breath—he saw her!
Elise Du Barry—Our Lady of Red Lips!...
She wore a white satin evening gown.
There were big pearls in her hair, around her throat, and on her fingers.
Her complexion was as white as her gown.
Not a touch of color, in her dress, or in her face—except her mouth.
But, just as the setting sun will dominate an evening sky, so did this crimson mouth dominate this ashen face, and this pallid figure. One was conscious of the woman’s mouth, first, last, and all the time.