The girl who, with changing color, stood gazing at Lord Drake Selbie
might have stepped out of one of Marcus Stone's pictures. She was as
fair as a piece of biscuit china. Her hair was golden, and, strange to
say in these latter days, naturally so. It was, indeed, like the fleece
of gold itself under her fashionable yachting hat. Her eyes, widely
opened, with that curious look of surprise and fear, were hazel--a deep
hazel, which men, until they knew her, accepted as an indication of Lady
Lucille's depth of feeling. She was slightly built, but graceful, with
the grace of the fashionable modiste.

She was the product of the marriage of Art and Fashion of this
fin-de-siècle age. Other ages have given us wit, beauty allied with
esprit, dignity of demeanor, and a nobility of principle; this end of
the nineteenth century has bestowed upon us--Lady Lucille Turfleigh.

It is in its way a marvelous product. It is very beautiful, with the
delicate beauty of excessive culture and effete luxury. It has the
subtle charm of the exotic, of the tall and graceful arum, whose
spotless whiteness cannot bear a single breath of the keen east wind.

It is charming, bewitching; it looks all purity and spirituality; it
seems to breathe poetry and a Higher Culture. It goes through life like
a rose leaf floating upon a placid stream. It is precious to look at,
pleasant to live with, and it has only one defect--it has no heart.