Nina's head was never raised, her nimble fingers never ceased to ply; but beneath her dark brows her darker eyes shot forth a glance of deep and subtle meaning, as she watched the young girl's gesture.
“Nina,” cried she, at last, “it is much too handsome for me; although I love to look at it, I actually fear to wear it. You know I never have worn anything like this before.”
“Mademoiselle is too diffident and too unjust to her own charms; beautiful as is the robe, it only suits the elegance of its wearer.”
“One ought to be so graceful in every gesture, so perfect in every movement beneath folds like these,” cried Kate, still gazing at the fine tracery.
“Mademoiselle is grace itself!” said she, in a low, soft voice, so quiet in its utterance that it sounded like a reflection uttered unconsciously.
“Oh, Nina, if I were so! If I only could feel that my every look and movement were not recalling the peasant girl; for, after all, I have been little better, our good blood could not protect us from being poor, and poverty means so much that lowers!”
Nina sighed, but so softly as to be inaudible; and Kate went on:
“My sister Nelly never thought so; she always felt differently. Oh, Nina, how you would love her if you saw her, and how you would admire her beautiful hair, and those deep blue eyes, so soft, so calm, and yet so meaning.”