Bright brown hair waved prettily back from
a white forehead, clever, dark gray eyes and a lovely complexion--one of
those complexions which, from a purity of conscience or a steadiness of
nerve, never change. Cheeks of a faint pink, an expressive, mobile
mouth, a neck of dazzling white. Such was Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, in the
prime of her youth.
"And you maintain that it is five years since we met," she was saying to
the tall Frenchman.
"Have I not counted every day?" he replied.
"I do not know," she answered, with a little laugh, that little laugh
which tells wise men where flattery may be shot like so much
conversational rubbish. Some women are fathomless pits, the rubbish
never seems to fill them. "I do not know, but I should not think so."
"Well, madam, it is so. Witness these gray hairs. Ah! those were happy
days in St. Petersburg."
Mrs. Sydney Bamborough smiled--a pleasant society smile, not too
pronounced and just sufficient to suggest pearly teeth. At the mention
of St. Petersburg she glanced round to see that they were not overheard.
She gave a little shiver.
"Don't speak of Russia!" she pleaded. "I hate to hear it mentioned. I
was so happy. It is painful to remember."
Even while she spoke the expression of her face changed to one of gay
delight. She nodded and smiled toward a tall man who was evidently
looking for her, and took no notice of the Frenchman's apologies.
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