Of waters still at even:
She had three lilies in her hand,
And the stars in her hair were seven.
—Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
"No, no, my cabbage, I do not find that plain gown becoming, of a verity thou must remember that thou art an English Countess and must henceforth adorn thy person with proper grandeur."
And worthy Mme. Legros, whilst vainly trying to express disapproval, gazed with obvious admiration at the dainty apparition before her.
"Let be, Maman, let be!" interposed Papa Legros soothingly, "the chit is well enough as she is. When she is over there in England, she may well look grand and stately; for the present she is still a tailor's daughter and I'll challenge the world to produce a daintier bale of goods. Par ma foi! were I not thy father, my pigeon, I were tempted to envy that profligate young scoundrel, thy noble lord and husband. 'Tis a mightily succulent morsel he will bite into the nonce."
Rose Marie striving to hide the confusion, which her kind father's broad allusion caused in her sensitive young heart, buried her face in the bouquet of snowdrops which she held in her hand.
No wonder that her adoring parents were proud of her. She looked a picture on this cold winter's morning, standing there in her little room beneath the eaves, clad in pure white like the snow which lay thick on the narrow window sill and along the streets of Paris.
She had fashioned her gown herself, of white grogram with a beautiful openwork lace pinner and delicate kerchief demurely folded across her young bosom. Her fair hair was dressed in small curls all over her small head, her neck was bare, as were her arms and hands, and in colour as delicate as the snowdrops which she carried.