* * *
At the Sleeping Woods she wore “little dresses,” as Pierre Ducal would have called them. She generally selected white, which was most becoming to her. Her taste in clothes, although simple and inexpensive, was exquisite, though my ultra-fashionable ideas would have dictated more elaborate gowns. After all, the test of good taste is in being fittingly attired, and she understood it better than I.
* * *
One day, as I was returning from a long ride, I met her on the road. It was early morning, when one’s age cannot be successfully hidden. That is why age scarcely exists in large cities, since the season and hours of our life are not clearly defined there.
“Where are you going?” I asked, struck anew by her youthful beauty.
My sudden interest surprised her, but she did not know that it was prompted by appreciation of her appearance rather than real interest in her destination.
“I am going to take this package to Fannette,” she replied, blushing with pleasure.
“The peasant with the chapped hands?” I asked, astonished at my own recollection.
“Yes. She is very ill; I have some medicine for her.”
“Would you care to have me go with you?”