a dubious tone; though to be sure, if he lent the portmanteau, it
would be like cementing the friendship for good or for evil; which
Philip, being a prudent young man, felt to be in some ways a trifle
dangerous; for who borrows a portmanteau must needs bring it back
again--which opens the door to endless contingencies. "I MIGHT be
able--"

At that moment, their colloquy was suddenly interrupted by the
entry of a lady who immediately riveted Bertram Ingledew's
attention. She was tall and dark, a beautiful woman, of that riper
and truer beauty in face and form that only declares itself as
character develops. Her features were clear cut, rather delicate
than regular; her eyes were large and lustrous; her lips not too
thin, but rich and tempting; her brow was high, and surmounted by a
luscious wealth of glossy black hair which Bertram never remembered
to have seen equalled before for its silkiness of texture and its
strange blue sheen, like a plate of steel, or the grass of the
prairies. Gliding grace distinguished her when she walked. Her
motion was equable. As once the sons of God saw the daughters of
men that they were fair, and straightway coveted them, even so
Bertram Ingledew looked on Frida Monteith, and saw at the first
glance she was a woman to be desired, a soul high-throned, very
calm and beautiful.

She stood there for a moment and faced him, half in doubt, in her
flowing Oriental or Mauresque robe (for she dressed, as Philip
would have said, "artistically"), waiting to be introduced the
while, and taking good heed, as she waited, of the handsome
stranger. As for Philip, he hesitated, not quite certain in his own
mind on the point of etiquette--say rather of morals--whether one