“What a lovely dress! To whom does it belong, M. de Seingalt? You ought to know.”
“Certainly. It belongs to your husband who can do what he likes with it, and I hope, if he gives it you, you will take it. Take it, count; it is yours; and if you refuse I will positively kill myself.”
“We love you too well to drive you to an act of despair. The idea is worthy of your nobility of heart. I take your beautiful present with one hand, and with the other I deliver it to her to whom it really belongs.”
“What, dear husband! is this beautiful dress really mine? Whom am I to thank? I thank you both, and I must put it on for dinner.”
The two others were not made of such rich materials, but they were more showy, and I was delighted to see Clementine’s longing gaze fixed upon the one I had intended for her. Eleanore in her turn admired the dress that had been made for her. The first was in shot satin, and ornamented with lovely wreaths of flowers; the second was sky-blue satin, with a thousand flowers scattered all over it. Zenobia took upon herself to say that the first was for Clementine.
“How do you know?”
“It is the longer, and you are taller than your sister.”
“That is true. It is really mine, then?” said she, turning to me.
“If I may hope that you will deign to accept it.”
“Surely, dear Iolas, and I will put it on directly.”