THE BETTER SORT
"But suppose," I threw out, "she should give on my nerves?"
"Oh, she will. But isn't that all in the day's work, and don't great beauties always———?"
"You don't," I interrupted; but I at any rate saw Lady Beldonald later on—the day came when her kinswoman brought her, and then I understood that her life had its centre in her own idea of her appearance. Nothing else about her mattered—one knew her all when one knew that. She is indeed in one particular, I think, sole of her kind—a person whom vanity has had the odd effect of keeping positively safe and sound. This passion is supposed surely, for the most part, to be a principle of perversion and injury, leading astray those who listen to it and landing them, sooner or later, in this or that complication; but it has landed her ladyship nowhere whatever—it has kept her from the first moment of full consciousness, one feels, exactly in the same place. It has protected her from every danger, has made her absolutely proper and prim. If she is "preserved," as Mrs. Munden originally described her to me, it is her vanity that has beautifully done it—putting her years ago in a plate-glass case and closing up the receptacle against every breath of air. How shouldn't she be preserved, when you might smash your knuckles on this transparency before you could crack it? And she is—oh, amazingly! Preservation is scarce the word for the rare condition of her surface. She looks naturally new, as if she took out every night her large, lovely, varnished eyes and put them in water. The thing was to paint her, I perceived, in the glass case—a most tempting, attaching feat; render to the full the shining, interposing plate and the general show-window effect.
It was agreed, though it was not quite arranged, that she should sit to me. If it was not quite arranged, this was because, as I was made to understand from an early
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