Mr. Grimm was chatting idly with Señorita Rodriguez, daughter of the
minister from Venezuela, the while he permitted his listless eyes to
wander aimlessly about the spacious ball-room of the German embassy,
ablaze with festooned lights, and brilliant with a multi-colored chaos
of uniforms. Gleaming pearl-white, translucent in the mass, were the
bare shoulders of women; and from far off came the plaintive whine of an
orchestra, a pulsing sense rather than a living sound, of music, pointed
here and there by the staccato cry of a flute. A zephyr, perfumed with
the clean, fresh odor of lilacs, stirred the draperies of the archway
which led into the conservatory and rustled the bending branches of
palms and ferns.

For a scant instant Mr. Grimm's eyes rested on a young woman who sat a
dozen feet away, talking, in playful animation, with an undersecretary
of the British embassy--a young woman severely gowned in some glistening
stuff which fell away sheerly from her splendid bare shoulders. She
glanced up, as if in acknowledgment of his look, and her eyes met his.
Frank, blue-gray eyes they were, stirred to their depths now by
amusement. She smiled at Señorita Rodriguez, in token of recognition.

"Aren't they wonderful?" asked Señorita Rodriguez with the quick,
bubbling enthusiasm of her race.

"What?" asked Mr. Grimm.

"Her eyes," was the reply. "Every person has one dominant feature--with
Miss Thorne it is her eyes."

"Miss Thorne?" Mr. Grimm repeated.