“No, I would rather wear black,” she said.
“That black corded silk with pale straw colour. That suits you to perfection; I admire your taste though the season is not far advanced it is hot. Which hat will you have?”
María looked at three hats that Pilar displayed. After long meditation she said: “That black one with—what do you call that colour—cream? and the bird is pretty too with those pale roses.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Pilar admiringly, “if you had not given up the world for more than a single day you could not do better. How well you have chosen. Very well, now you shall try them on. We must see if the gown fits you; it can be taken in, or let out; I brought my maid, and between us ...”
Before María could say a word her mother, Pilar, and the maid had begun to divest her of the coarse grey flannel dress which looked like the gown of some poverty-stricken priestling. But at this proceeding María felt a slight reaction.
“Mercy!” she cried, “what are you doing?”
“Silly, silly child,” said the marquesa, “even at such a crisis can you not forget the follies of your exaggerated devotion?”
María allowed herself to be led into the next room and in front of a looking-glass; but the mirror was covered with a black curtain and looked more like a catafalque. They pulled it aside, and in the glass was born, as one might say, the charming image of María Sudre—a sudden creation as it seemed in her eyes.
“Good Heavens!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands, “how thin I am!”
“Yes a little fallen away, but prettier, much prettier than ever,” said her mother enthusiastically.