On the right side of the table sits the most beautiful of the maidens. She has long, straight hair of the darkest, richest, nut-brown, blue, sparkling eyes, and a quietly smiling red mouth. She is a proud, distant-eyed girl, about seventeen, popular, humorous, down-to-earth. She occupied her chair like a throne, she casts her eyes about gracefully, like a truw queen. Her right hand caresses her left. She laughs prettily at the joke of some acquaintance, puts her hair beyond her ears, every now and then casts her eyes down sadly and reflectively. The dress she is wearing is of the palest, most delicate blue, and the front of it is minutely overlaid with gold-silk thread. The front of her hair is tied-up and restrained by a delicate tiara, but the rest of it cascades splendidly over her slim shoulders. At her elbow is a chalice of wine. At closer range, she looks less self-assured, and anyone close to her gets an intimation of her as more introverted, even less pretty, for there is something in her face, perhaps the arch of her nostrils, or the configuration of her eyes, that is somehow displeasing and could even be accorded ugly. It is plain she is uncompromising in her presence, almost masculine as she looks down, with a bashful kind of worry, so that she could either be a great genius or a great whore, or both. It is clear, at first sight of her, that she lives to laugh and to cry, but to do both with all her heart.