There at once was a complication of a kind I never had to fear with Miss Churm.
This young lady came back in black velvet--the gown was rather rusty and very low on her lean shoulders--and with a Japanese fan in her red hands.

I reminded her that in the scene I was doing she had to look over some one's head.

"I forget whose it is but it doesn't matter.

Just look over a head." "I'd rather look over a stove," said Miss Churm and she took her station near the fire.

She fell into Position, settled herself into a tall attitude, gave a certain backward inclination to her head and a certain forward droop to her fan, and looked, at least to my prejudiced sense, distinguished and charming, foreign and dangerous.