me to Coombe Tracey, and I quickly found the lady's rooms, which were
central & well appointed. A maid showed me in without ceremony, and
as I entered the sitting-room a lady, who was sitting before a Remington
typewriter, sprang up with a pleasant smile of welcome, which
disappeared when she saw I was a stranger.
The first impression left by Mrs. Lyons is one of extreme beauty. Her
eyes & hair are of the same rich hazel colour, and her cheeks, though
considerably freckled, are flushed with the exquisite bloom of the
brunette, the dainty pink which lurks at the heart of the sulphur rose.
Admiration was, I repeat, my first impression. But the second was
critisism. There is something wrong with her face, some coarseness of
expression, some hardness, perhaps, of eye, some looseness of lip which
mars its perfect beauty. These, of course, are afterthoughts. At the
