too fine for the stage. The positive and enduring joys of her life were
that she lived in London--for which she had the kind of passion that
some people have for the Earth-Mother--and loved beauty as some women
love religion. She had been loved many times, but never quite as she
needed, as she demanded, to be loved. Vivid, passionate, and exquisite,
she was what we call "modern" to the tips of her beautiful fingers; that
is, she united the newest opinions on all things with many ancient
charms. At the same time she was a good woman, though very wonderful and
highly dangerous.

Presently Mr. Moggridge, who from where he sat commanded a view of the
street, exclaimed, "Why, here is Mr. Londonderry himself!" rising as he
spoke and passing into the hall, where he was met by a curiously rich
and mellow voice, which Isabel Strange thus heard for the first time;
and then the glorified original of the photograph entered the room.

As her eyes and hands met his, her soul gave a little half-humorous
"Oh!" of surprise; for photography, which seems to have been invented to
flatter the mediocre and belittle the exceptional, had indeed given
Londonderry an "interesting face," as we have heard, but missed all the
rest--"all the rest" of a large, mobile, talking face, not exactly
handsome perhaps, but decidedly good-looking and full of various
commands and appeals, thought on the brow and laughter in the eyes,
humour and eloquence all along the large and somewhat loose mouth, with
plenty of go in the powerful but not anxiously determined chin. These
were the moral qualities of the face, which Isabel Strange did not miss;
but it was the fascination of its general vitality that struck her most,
as an important introduction was made, to the usual fantastic
accompaniment of small talk.