"Yes," said I, "if you wish."
"I do wish," she said. "I'm savage to-night."
I laughed. "It's very becoming, dear."
Then the great bell of the Cathedral began to chime the hour; and, with a word of caution, I led the way to the Gallery.
The floor was covered with a thick carpet and eight small chairs were placed close to the railing. The tapestry was very old and thin and, by putting one's face close to it, the room below was rather dimly, yet quite sufficiently, visible. Its dimensions were unusually ample—possibly forty feet by sixty—and its furnishings most gorgeous. The chandelier and side-lights were burning, and a huge vase lamp, pink shaded, was on the large table in the centre. At the moment, the room was untenanted.
In a little while a door opposite the Gallery opened and Madeline Spencer entered.
A woman usually knows her good points physically and how to bring them out. And Mrs. Spencer was an adept in the art—though, in truth, little art was needed. To her, Nature had been over generous.
She affected black; and that was her gown, now—cut daringly low and without a jot of color about it, save the dead white of her arms and shoulders, and a huge bunch of violets at her waist.
I thought I could guess whence the flowers came. And, though I despised her, yet, I could but admit her dazzling beauty.
She moved slowly about the room, touching an ornament here, a picture there. At length, she came to the table and, dropping languidly into a chair, rested her elbow on the arm and, with chin in hand, stared into vacancy.