For her closest feminine friend could not have denied Adèle Gertstein’s beauty. Still something under thirty, she was tall and supple as a boy. A complexion of roses and cream called for little in the way of artificial preservation, although that little she saw was supplied. Melting blue eyes, a mouth that was inclined to waver a little uncertainly, or a little plaintively or a little piquantly⁠—it depended which way you regarded it⁠—and a delicate chin that she could tilt with charming defiance on occasion, made her a picture on which a man’s eye’s might dwell restfully.

“You think it will do, Rena?” she asked, as she studied herself from a series of angles in the tall mirror.

The maid threw up her hands in an eloquent gesture of admiration. “It is simply perfect, madam,” she declared.

“Then I will go.”