On one side of the table Faustina reclined gracefully in a crimson velvet easy-chair. The siren was beautifully dressed in the pure white that her sin-smutted soul, in its falsehood, affected. Her robe was of shining white satin, trimmed with soft white swan's- down; fine white lace delicately veiled her snowy neck and arms; white lilies of the valley wreathed her raven hair and rested on her rounded bosom.
She looked "divine," as her fool of a lover assured her. Yes, she looked "divine"—as the devil did when he appeared in the image of an angel of light.
How did she dare, that guilty and audacious woman, to assume a dress that symbolized purity and humility?
Lord Vincent lolled in the other armchair on the opposite side of the table, and from under his languid and half-tipsy eyelids cast passionate glances upon her.
Mrs. Macdonald had withdrawn her chair from the table and nearer the fire, and had fallen asleep, or complacently affected to do so; for Mrs. MacDonald was the soul of complacency. Mrs. Dugald declared that she was a love of an old lady.
"What a night it is outside! It is good to be here," said Faustina, taking a bunch of ripe grapes and turning towards the fire.
"Yes, my angel," answered the viscount drowsily, regarding her from under his eyelids. "What a bore it is!"
"What is a bore?" inquired Faustina, putting a ripe grape between her plump lips.
"That we are not married, my sweet."
"Eh bien! we soon shall be."