What Dreams May Come | Page 5

last season in London, and the Queen
pronounced her the most beautiful girl who had been presented at Court
for twenty years. Such a relief from the blue-eyed and 'golden-bronze'
professional! She will pass in a moment. Do rouse yourself."
Dartmouth got up languidly and walked to the window. After all, a new
face and a pretty one was something; one degree, perhaps, better than
nothing. "Which is she?" he asked. "The one in the next carriage, with
Lady Langdon, talking to Bolton."
The carriage passed them, and Harold's eyes met for a moment those of
a girl who was lying back chatting idly with a man who rode on

horseback beside her. She was a beautiful creature, truly, with a rich,
dark skin, and eyes like a tropical animal's. A youthful face, striking
and unconventional.
"Well?" queried Hollington.
"Yes, a very handsome girl," said Dartmouth. "I have seen her before,
somewhere."
"What! you have seen that woman before and not remembered her?
Impossible! And then you have not been in England for a year."
"I am sure I have seen her before," said Dartmouth. "Where could it
have been?"
"Her father is a Welsh baronet, and your estates are in the North, so you
could hardly have known her as a child. She was educated in the utmost
seclusion at home; no one ever saw her or heard of her until the fag end
of the last London season, and she only arrived in Paris two days ago,
and made her first appearance in public last night at the opera, where
you were not. So where could you have seen her?"
"I cannot imagine," said Dartmouth, meditatively. "But her face is
dimly familiar, and it is a most unusual one. Tell me something about
her;" and he resumed his seat.
"She is the daughter of Sir Iltyd-ap-Penrhyn," said Hollington, craning
his neck to catch a last glimpse of the disappearing beauty. "Awfully
poor, but dates back to before Chaos. Looks down with scorn upon Sir
Watkin Wynn, who hangs up the flood on the middle branch of his
family tree. They live in a dilapitated old castle on the coast, and there
Sir Iltyd brought up this tropical bird--she is an only child--and
educated her himself. Her mother died when she was very young, and
her father, with the proverbial constancy of mankind, has never been
known to smile since. Lively for the tropical bird, was it not? Lady
Langdon, who was in Wales last year, and who was an old friend of the
girl's mother, called on her and saw the professional possibilities, so to
speak. She gave the old gentleman no peace until he told her she could

take the girl to London, which she did forthwith, before he had time to
change his mind. She has made a rousing sensation, but she is a
downright beauty and no mistake. Lady Langdon evidently intends to
hold on to her, for I see she has her still."
"I could not have known her, of course; I have never put my foot in
Wales. But I suppose I shall meet her now. Is she to be at the Russian
Legation to-night?"
"Yes; I have it from the best authority--herself. You had better go. She
is worth knowing, I can tell you."
"Well, I'll think of it," said Dartmouth. "I must be off now; I have no
end of letters to write. I'll rely upon you to do the honors if I go!" and
he took up his hat and sauntered out.
He went directly to his apartments on the Avenue Champs Élysées, and
wrote a few epistles to his impatient and much-enduring relatives in
Britain; then, lighting a cigar, he flung himself upon the sofa. The room
accorded with the man. Art and negligence were hand-in-hand. The
hangings were of dusky-gold plush, embroidered with designs which
breathed the fervent spirit of Decorative Art, and the floor was covered
with the oldest and oddest of Persian rugs. There were cabinets of
antique medallions, cameos, and enamels; low brass book-cases, filled
with volumes bound in Russian leather, whose pungent odor filled the
room; a varied collection of pipes; a case of valuable ceramics, one of
the collection having a pedigree which no uncelestial mind had ever
pretended to grasp, and which had been presented to Lord Cardingham,
while minister to China, by the Emperor. That his younger son had
unblushingly pilfered it he had but recently discovered, but demands
for its return had as yet availed not. There were a few valuable
paintings, a case of rare old plates, many with the coats of arms of
sovereigns upon them, strangely carved chairs, each with a history, all
crowded together and making a charming nest for the listless,
somewhat morbid, and disgusted young man