Picture a slim figure, rather under middle height, a bright eye that sparkled as though there was dew upon it, piquant little features that all joined in a frequent and quite irresistible smile; and, finally, dress this dainty demoiselle in the most fascinating costume you can imagine. Need it be said that I was soon emboldened to talk quite frankly and presently to ask her who some of the company were? “Sir Henry” turned out to be Sir Henry Horley, a prosperous baronet, who scarcely ever left the saddle; the gentleman with the long mustache, to be Lord Thane, an elder son with political aspirations; while the man I had first accosted was no less a person than Mr. H. Y. Tonks, the celebrated cricketer.
“And now will you point out to me Miss Trevor-Hudson?” I asked. “I hear she is very beautiful.”
“Who told you that?” she inquired, with a more charming smile than ever.
“Her admirers,” I answered.
The girl raised her eyebrows, shot me the archest glance in the world, and pointing her finger to her own breast, said, simply:
“There she is.”
I said to myself that though my friend Teddy Lumme was “off women,” I, at any rate, was not.
