The Beautiful Lady.
“How do you do?” he said, smiling and holding the door ajar.
Dick bowed.
“Gloria, this is Anthony.”
“Well!” she cried, holding out a little gloved hand. Under her fur coat her dress was Alice-blue, with white lace crinkled stiffly about her throat.
“Let me take your things.”
Anthony stretched out his arms and the brown mass of fur tumbled into them.
“Thanks.”
“What do you think of her, Anthony?” Richard Caramel demanded barbarously. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
“Well!” cried the girl defiantly—withal unmoved.
She was dazzling—alight; it was agony to comprehend her beauty in a glance. Her hair, full of a heavenly glamour, was gay against the winter color of the room.
Anthony moved about, magician-like, turning the mushroom lamp into an orange glory. The stirred fire
