Mrs. Nevill's account of herself, though somewhat highly colored, was

substantially true. When Stanistreet suggested defeat, it was his first

allusion to her husband's desertion of her; and like most of Louis's

utterances, it was full of tact.

Defeat? She had brooded over the idea, and then apparently she had an

inspiration.

From that day, wherever there was a sufficiently important crowd to see

her, Mrs. Nevill Tyson was to be seen. She was generally with Louis

Stanistreet, who was not a figure to be overlooked; she was always

exquisitely dressed; and sometimes, not often, she was delicately painted

and powdered. Mrs. Nevill Tyson hated what was commonplace and loud; and

she had to make herself conspicuous in a season when women dressed

fortissimo, and a fashionable crowd was like a bed of flowers in June.

Somehow she managed to strike some resonant minor chord of color that

went throbbing through that confused orchestra. Everywhere she went

people turned and stared at her as she flashed by; and apparently her one

object was to be stared at. She became as much of a celebrity as any

woman with a character and without a position "in society" can become.

If she were counterfeiting a type, enough of the original Mrs. Nevill

Tyson remained to give her own supernatural näiveté to the character.

Stanistreet was completely puzzled by this new freak; it looked like

recklessness, it looked like vanity, it looked--it looked like an

innocent parody of guilt. He had given in to her whim, as he had given

In to every wish of hers, but he was not quite sure that he liked the

frankness, the publicity of the thing. He wondered how so small a woman

contrived to attract so large a share of attention in a city where pretty

women were as common as paving-stones. Perhaps it was partly owing to the

persistence and punctuality of her movements: she patronized certain

theatres, haunted certain thoroughfares at certain times. She had an

affection for Piccadilly, a sentiment for Oxford Circus, and a passion

for the Strand. Louis could sympathize with these preferences; he, too,

liked to walk up and down the Embankment in the summer twilight--though

why such abrupt stoppages? Why such impetuous speed? He could understand

a human being finding a remote interest in the Houses of Parliament, but

he could not understand why Mrs. Nevill Tyson should love to linger

outside the doors of the War Office.

Her ways were indeed inscrutable; but he had learnt to know them all, not

a gesture escaped him. How well he knew the turn of her head and the

sudden flash of her face as they entered a theatre, and her eyes swept

the house, eager, expectant, dubious; how well he knew the excited touch

on his sleeve, the breath half-drawn, the look that was a confidence and

an enigma; knew, too, the despondent droop of her eyes when the play was

done and it was all over; the tightening of her hand upon his arm, and

the shrinking of the whole tiny figure as they made their way out through

the crowd. She had spirit enough for anything; but her nerves were all on

edge--she was so easily tired, so easily startled.




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