Before the dressing-table, and in front of the big glass, in which she could see my white face, was an old lady seated.
She wore a blaze of jewels and a low gown out of which rose the scraggiest neck and shoulders I have ever looked on. Her hair was thick with black dye and fastened with a diamond star. The powder between the two candles showed on her cheek-bones like flour on a miller's coat. Chin on hand, she was gazing steadily into the mirror before her, and even in my fright I had time to note that a glass of sherry and a plate of rice and curry stood at her elbow, among the rouge-pots and powder-puffs.
While I stood stock still and pretty well scared out of my wits, she rose, still staring at my image in the glass, folded her hands modestly over her bosom, and spoke in a deep tragical voice—
"The Prince!"
Then, facing sharply round, she held out her thin arms.
"You have come—at last?"
There wasn't much to say to this except that I had. So I confessed it. Even with the candles behind her I could see her eyes glowing like a dog's, and an uglier poor creature this world could scarcely show.
"Is the ladder set against the window?"
"Since you seem to know, ma'am," said I, "it is."
"Ah, Romeo! Your cheeks are ruddy—your poppies are too red."