Her thoughts are interrupted by fresh arrivals. Into the exclusive circle in which Mrs. Douglas' soul delights, stride the massive proportions and gorgeous sweeping draperies of Mrs. Bradshaw B. Wooliffe. Following her is a little dainty figure—a sort of modern Dresden shepherdess in point of colouring and attire. She is introduced by Mrs. Wooliffe as "My niece from New York, Miss Anastasia Jane Jefferson."
Every one looks at her. Every one wonders whether it is prettiness, or piquancy, or chic, that makes the radiant face so bewitching—the tiny figure so attractive, and one among the coterie, the Belgravian matron, with demoiselles à marier, looks virtuously indignant and annoyed at the intrusion.
"She is sure to be fast and talk with that awful twang, that's one comfort," she thinks, as with the coldest and stiffest of bows she greets the new-comer.
But Miss Jefferson is not fast or vulgar, and though her accent and expression are decidedly American, they have a piquant charm of their own that the younger members of the conclave listen to enviously, and the men seem to find irresistibly attractive.
Mrs. Bradshaw B. Wooliffe and her niece fairly break up the select groups and tête à têtes, and make themselves the centre of attraction and attention. The loud voice and hearty laughter of the elder lady peal through the room, to the utter annihilation of softer voices and confidential whispers.
"We have just come from Lady Etwynde's reception," she says, laughing immoderately. "I reckon you people are having some fun out of your new craze. Guess she's gone pretty nigh out of her mind, at all events."
"What was it like? Do tell us," chime in one or two voices—voices of outsiders to whom the Lady—or, as she loved to call herself, the "Ladye"—Etwynde Fitz-Herbert is a sort of unknown wonder. Her sayings and doings are chronicled by society journals; but her circle of intimates and associates is very limited. They begin to wonder how Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe gained admittance. That lady now informs them.
"Well," she commences, looking round at the attentive faces, "I was calling at Lauraine's—beg pardon, I suppose I should say Lady Vavasour's—and she took me with her and Keith. Keith is a great chum of the 'Ladye' Etwynde's. We got to her house—a real lovely place with a big garden, out Kensington way; all red brick, no windows to speak of, but lots of frames, and a hall—my! the queerest place—all done with matting, and so dark, and everywhere double doors and plush curtains, 'of a sad sage-green,' to use Keith's expression. Such a silent place, not a sound anywhere. Well, we went into a room, also very dim and a great deal of green and yellow about it, and huge pots of sunflowers in the windows, and the very queerest chairs, and on every chair sat a woman, and behind every chair stood a man. They were all quite still, and had their eyes fixed on the sunflowers and their bodies twisted into the queerest attitudes. I stared some, I can tell you. Lauraine went up to a tall, beautiful woman dressed in a clinging gown of terra-cotta stuff—such a gown! My! Worth never had anything to do with that frock, I guess. She came forward and spoke to me. 'You are not one of us, but you are welcome,' she said. Her voice was very sad and very sweet.
"'This is one of our contemplative afternoons,' she said, when I had bowed—speak, I really couldn't. 'We do but sit still, and yearn.'"
"What?" ejaculated the listeners.