Mrs. Lambert stood in her dressing-room, radiant with jewels, pallid with nervous excitement. She was still a beautiful woman; her mirror reflected that and more, it revealed the faint shiver of her hands, the anxious fire in her eyes, the swell and contraction of her white throat, under its diamond necklace. Ellen, her maid, had never seen her so strangely restless before; she turned her eyes imploringly on the girl, and besought her to say honestly if she looked so old as nine-and-thirty. The maid clasped her hands.
“Indeed, indeed, Mrs. Lambert, you do not look it by ten years.”
The proud woman smiled, and touched the girl’s shoulder caressingly, for the first time in her life.
“Look again, Ellen; can you see no lines on my forehead, no contraction here at my throat?”
“Nothing of the kind; if they were there, I should, the diamonds light them up so.”
“And my hair. Ah! Ellen, I see threads of white.”
“That is because you are looking for them; besides, your hair is so glossy and black, the least thing shows. A dust of powder, now?”
“No, no, no! He detests—— You ought to remember that I detest powder. Take the jewels out of my hair, they kindle up every defect. My dress, too, looks presumptuously youthful.”
“Youthful, why not? There will be no young lady at the party half so beautiful. Besides, this shade of mauve is neither old nor young, so delicate and rich; just a glimpse of blue, with a faint blush of roses breaking out, as the dress-maker said, when it came home, ‘something for point lace flounces to tell upon,’ says she, ‘satin thick as a board, sweeping so majestic, with the lace floating over like—like mist.’ That is what she said, but then, of course, you know best, ma’am—nobody ever had so much taste.”
Mrs. Lambert was not listening, but unclasped her bracelets, and took off her necklace with an air of disgust.