On the high bed, whose hangings of blue we have already described, silently regarding the intruder with a pair of eyes that sent an icy thrill through him and fastened him where he stood, lay Palmyre Philosophe.

Her dress was a long, snowy morning-gown, wound loosely about at the waist with a cord and tassel of scarlet silk; a bright-colored woollen shawl covered her from the waist down, and a necklace of red coral heightened to its utmost her untamable beauty.
An instantaneous indignation against Doctor Keene set the face of the speechless apothecary on fire, and this, being as instantaneously comprehended by the philosophe, was the best of introductions.

Yet her gaze did not change.
The Congo negress broke the spell with a bristling protest, all in African b's and k's, but hushed and drew off at a single word of command from her mistress.
In Frowenfeld's mind an angry determination was taking shape, to be neither trifled with nor contemned.

And this again the quadroon discerned, before he was himself aware of it.
"Doctor Keene"-- he began, but stopped, so uncomfortable were her eyes.
She did not stir or reply.
Then he bethought him with a start, and took off his dripping hat.
At this a perceptible sparkle of imperious approval shot along her glance; it gave the apothecary speech.
"The doctor is sick, and he asked me to dress your wound." She made the slightest discernible motion of the head, remained for a moment silent, and then, still with the same eye, motioned her hand toward a chair near a comfortable fire.
He sat down.

It would be well to dry himself.