She was sitting in an
armchair facing the window, her knees crossed idly, her elbow
leaning on a table beside her, her head resting on her hand; idle,
listless. Perhaps her toilette alone, as an elaborate work, might
excuse her from any other for several hours. She looked round with a
smile, and even that was tired, as I entered and crossed to her.
"How are you, dearest, to-day?" I said, as I took her hand. "No,
pray, don't get up," I added, as she made a movement to rise, and to
obviate her doing so, I dropped into a low wicker chair, which I
drew up close to hers, and laid the lilies on her lap.
"I am as well as usual, thanks, Victor. These are lovely! Where did
you get them?"
"At a shop in Regent Street. I wanted something extraordinary, but
they had nothing."
"What could you have more beautiful than these?"
"Beautiful? Yes; but there is no worth in beauty unless there is
some peculiarity about it to attract one. May I do that for you?"
She had lifted the flowers and begun to fasten them into the front
of her bodice, a difficult work, covered, as it was, with an
intricate maze of lace.
"Thank you! I am perfectly capable of achieving it myself."
The familiar, cold pride in the tone brought an ironical smile to my
lips--suppressed, however, before she saw it.
"You are afraid of the risk of my hand touching your breast
accidentally in fastening a flower!" I thought, satirically, as I
watched her in silence, and remembered the mission with which I had
come.
Pages:
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218