But the signora was in a gaysome mood, affectionate, pliable. She would have everything en fête. Never was she so happy as when planning a new costume that should charm and bewilder. For the dinner she would wear black velvet with a scarf of Roumanian gypsy work, intricate embroidery of orange and black that seemed made for her, Carlota said, as she draped it around her statuesque shoulders.
“You should wear a heavy necklace of topaz with that, topaz and emeralds, or just topaz set in silver.”
“Heart’s treasure, how you know the correct touch. Get me the key of the small chest.”
“But—aren’t you wearing it, dear, around your neck?”
Maria smiled at her delightedly, archly.
“I find a new hiding-place for it daily, ever since I have feared it was known we had them here. To-day it is in the pot of cyclamen. Yesterday I put it in the back of the clock. Am I not wonderful?”
Carlota laughed and discovered the key planted carefully in the pot of cyclamen as she said.
“To-night you shall hide it and show if you are a good mystifier. Look in the third tray and get out the necklaces. They are in the large tray.”
The lock gave rustily. Carlota sat on the floor with the tray on her lap, lifting out the old necklaces in a dream. They were heavy and old-fashioned, but set with perfect gems. She found the topaz one and hung it around the signora’s throat gently.
“It is superb,” she sighed. “I was very attractive in my prime, carina, but never like your grandmother. Ah, jewels were made for her as stars for the night. Here, pile them in my drawer and pick out pearls for yourself. You will wear white while you can. After thirty it is sad.”