Her whole aspect changed; she lit a cigarette and hummed a tune, while she fingered a key which dangled from her bracelet.
No one eclipsed Madame Boleski in that distinguished crowd later on. Her clinging silver brocade, and the one red rose at the edge of the extreme décolletage, were simply the perfection of art. She did not wear gloves, and on her beautifully manicured hands she wore no rings except a magnificent ruby on the left little finger. It was her caprice to refuse an alliance. "Wedding rings!" she had said to Stanislass. "Bosh! they spoil the look. Sometimes it is chic to have a good jewel on one finger, sometimes on another, but to be tied down to that band of homely gold! Never!"
Stanislass had argued in those early days—he seldom argued now.
"My love!" he cried, as she burst upon his infatuated vision, when ready for the ball, "let me admire you!"
She turned about; she knew that she was perfection.
Her husband kissed her fingers, and then he caught sight of the ruby ring. He examined it.
"I had not seen this ruby before," he exclaimed in a surprised voice, "and I thought I knew all your jewel case!"
She held out her hand while her big, stupid, appealing hazel eyes expressed childish innocence.
"No—I'd put it away, it was of other days—but I do love rubies, and so
I got it out to-night, it goes with my rose!"
He had perceived this. Had he not become educated in the subtleties of a woman's apparel? For was it not his duty often, and his pleasure sometimes, to have to assist at her toilet, and to listen for hours to discussions of garments, and if they could suit or not. He was even accustomed now to waiting in the hot salons in the Rue de la Paix, while these stately perfections were being essayed. But the ruby ring worried him. Why had she asked him to give her just such a one only last month, if she already possessed its fellow?… He had refused because her extravagance had grown fantastic, but he had meant to cede later. Every pleasure of the senses he always had to secure by bribes.