THE MAGICIAN "Well, Dinah, my dear, are you ready ?" Rose de Vigne, very slim and graceful, with her beautiful hair mounted high above her white forehead and falling in a shower of golden ringlets behind after the style of a hundred years ago, stood on the threshold of Dinah's room, awaiting permission to enter.

Her dress was of palest green satin brocade, a genuine Court dress of a century old.

Her arms and neck gleamed with a snowy whiteness.

She looked as if she had just stepped out of an ancient picture.
There came an impatient cry from within the room.

"Oh, come in! Come in! I'm not nearly ready,--never shall be, I think.