"
"One has to," she replied with a little sigh. "Especially if one is a
woman, which little mishap comes to some of us, you know. I wonder if
you could find me a chair."
She was standing with her back to a small sofa capable of holding three,
but calculated to accommodate two. She did not of course see it. In fact
she looked everywhere but toward it, raising her perfectly gloved
fingers tentatively for his arm.
"I am tired of standing," she added.
He turned and indicated the sofa, toward which she immediately advanced.
As she sat down he noted vaguely that she was exquisitely dressed,
certainly one of the best dressed women in the room. Her costume was
daring without being startling, being merely black and white largely,
boldly contrasted. He felt indefinitely proud of the dress. Some
instinct in the man's simple, strong mind told him that it was good for
women to be beautiful, but his ignorance of the sex being profound he
had no desire to analyze the beauty. He had no mental reservation with
regard to her. Indeed it would have been hard to find fault with Etta
Sydney Bamborough, looking upon her merely as a beautiful woman,
exquisitely dressed. In a cynical age this man was without cynicism. He
did not dream of reflecting that the lovely hair owed half its beauty to
the clever handling of a maid, that the perfect dress had been the
all-absorbing topic of many of its wearer's leisure hours.
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