It was a lovely and sculpturesque attitude, that which was taken up by the “stained-glass virgins,” as James Magnus called them, on the night of their first “at home” of the season, for at every opportunity, when not otherwise engaged, they joined their hands together, raised them over their left or right shoulder, as the case may be, and then drooped a head against them till an ear just touched the finger-tips, so that they seemed to be saying their prayers all on one side and writhing over the Amens.
Claudine and Faustine Perry-Morton were thorough types of the ladies who have of late taught society how to indulge in the reverent worship of the human form. Their hair was too fearful and wonderful to be described. The nearest approach possible is to compare it to the gum mop of some Papuan belle, who had been chivied during her toilet in the eucalyptus shade, and, consequently, had only managed to get the front part done.
Since dress is made so great a feature in a modern lady’s life, no excuse is surely needed for saying a few words regarding the costume of these gifted sisters. A desire is felt to do justice to those robes, but to give a perfect idea would be extremely difficult.
As it happened, the colour was but one, and it was that of the familiar household tap-rooted vegetable botanically named daucus, but hight the carrot, when seen reposing in sweetness in a dish.
These dresses were, of course, ingeniously contrived to keep on the persons they enfolded, but their aspect was as if a length of many yards of this ruddy orange saffron material had been taken, and one end fastened to an ivory shoulder with a tin-tack of enormous size, the other end being held under the foot of some one far away. Parenthetically, let it be remembered that this is all surmise, as no doubt the costumes were built by one of the highest authorities in fashionable garb. But to resume.
The ends of the dress being thus secured upon the shoulder and beneath a distant foot, it seemed that the lady must then have commenced a slow movement, revolving gently and winding herself in the web till it formed a regular—or rather, irregular—spiral bandage from shoulder to ankle, leaving the long thin arms bare, and, after being secured at the feet, trailing far behind and spreading out like a fan.
Perry-Morton walked to the fireplace, laid his head sideways against a large blue plate, which gave him the appearance of a well-fed saint with an azure halo, closed his eyes like a vicious critic on varnishing day, and uttered a low sigh full of rapture, after which he seemed to bless his sisters for giving him a sensation that was perfectly new.
Of the decorations of that suite of rooms it is needless to speak. Every visitor said they were perfect. Even James Magnus told Lord Artingale they were not half bad, “only there’s too much suggestion of the kitchen-dresser with the dinner-plates ranged all a-row.”
Harry Artingale thought it a polished pantechnicon-inferno till the Mallows were announced, and then it seemed transformed into a paradise of delight, where every one walked on air, and the sweet essence of pretty little Cynthia pervaded all.
For Mr Perry-Morton and the Misses Perry-Morton were “at home,” and the big butler was pretty well occupied in announcing the names called to him by the footman, who stood down among the azaleas with which the hall was half filled, ready to open the door and rearrange the roll of horsehair matting which would keep getting out of place.