“The eyes of a Circe, or at times the eyes of a tigress.”
“She is magnificent!” murmured Deacon rapturously. “I have never seen so beautiful a woman.”
His glance followed the tall figure as it passed into a smaller salon on the left; nor was he alone in his regard. Fashionable society was well represented in the gallery—where a collection of pictures by a celebrated artist was being shown; and prior to the entrance of the lady in the strangely fashioned tiger-skin cloak, the somewhat extraordinary works of art had engaged the interest even of the most fickle, but, from the moment the tiger-lady made her appearance, even the most daring canvases were forgotten.
“She wears tiger-skin shoes!” whispered one.
“She is like a design for a poster!” laughed another.
“I have never seen anything so flashy in my life,” was the acrid comment of a third.
“What a dazzlingly beautiful woman!” remarked another—this one a man. While:
“Who is she?” arose upon all sides.
Judging from the isolation of the barbaric figure, it would seem that society did not know the tiger-lady, but Deacon, seizing his companion by the arm and almost dragging him into the small salon which the lady had entered, turned in the doorway and looked into Annesley's eyes. Annesley palpably sought to evade the glance.
“You know everybody,” whispered Deacon. “You must be acquainted with her.”