"--erratic as Damaris, is certainly no------"

"Sinecure," supplied Berenice, who, in the fervour of her affection for
her herculean cleric, gave no thought to such trifles as head-dresses,
and not much to the rest of her attire.

Giving a final pat to her offsprings' toilettes, Mamma shepherded them
downstairs, tapping at Damaris's door as she passed, inviting her to
join them in the Winter-Garden, where they were going to sit and look
at the dresses, and watch the arrival of the guests from the less
select hotels.

Damaris looked radiantly beautiful as she stood for a moment at the
window of her godmother's sitting-room, into which she had gone to
fetch a fan.

True, her eyes looked over-big in the violet shadows that surrounded
them, and her cheek and collar-bones were unduly prominent, but then,
however well you hide the fox of uncertainty which tears at the vitals
of your common sense and sense of humour, you cannot completely hide
the outward signs of the inner agony which tortures you.

"You're a perfect picture, dearie!" said Jane Coop as she tied the
ribbons of the simple, heelless, white leather shoes in which the girl
always preferred to dance. "Let me look at you just once more."

Like a slender lily Damaris stood under the electric light. The soft
white satin seemed to cling like a sheath to the slender, beautiful
figure; her arms were bare; the bodice cut low enough to show her
gleaming shoulders. She was dazzling, virginal, remote as she stood