Miss Folly smiled again. “That, naturally! but before ice-cream?”
“Oh! Oh, must I? Broiled chicken! I thank madame most respectuously—”
Miss Folly nodded cheerfully, and departed. Nine pairs of eyes, opened to their roundest extent, gazed at one another. Then Honor held out her arm, solemnly.
“Pinch me, Stephanie!” she said. “Quite hard, please—ow! that will do. Because if I am not asleep and dreaming, then we are all in a fairy story, that’s all.”
Still more fairy-like it seemed when at a quarter before six o’clock, punctually, Miss Folly appeared, like a matter-of-fact fairy godmother, and whisked Honor off in the victoria with the long-tailed black horses, the very carriage in which—hélas! poor pretty Maman and kind Papa used to take her on those long drives. There had been a solemn consultation over Honor’s dress for the occasion. She felt in her heart that black velvet, with a long train and point lace flounces, was the fitting attire. Diamonds, of course; her superb dark tresses woven into a stately coronal (she had just discovered “coronal,” and thought it a beautiful word) with a single ostrich plume, snowy white, curling above it. These decorations not being at hand, she turned her mind with a sigh to the actual choice, the dark blue cashmere with crochet buttons, or the white embroidered muslin, Maman’s last gift, now let down to its fullest extent; a trifle short in the sleeves, but still “all that there was of most gracious!” Soeur Séraphine declared. Madame was rather in favor of the cashmere; it was more composed, she said; more sedate, and wholly suitable. Stephanie, who assisted at the conference, affectionately pressed upon Honor her own best dress, the red silk with black velvet ribbon. Soeur Séraphine suppressed a shudder, and promptly decided on the white, for which Honor thanked her with an eloquent glance. It was darling of Stephanie, but—and, besides, Maman had told her never to wear red or pink; “Unless, when you are forty, my darling, a deep red velvet; your hair will be darker by then, and it will suit your tint.”
Honor did not feel as if she would ever be forty; why not four hundred at once? But she knew that this infliction of her hair could be made better or worse by her choice of colors. She gladly put on the white dress, and was pondering the question of a sash, when she heard a light step in the corridor; then a soft rustle as of silk; a touch on the handle of the door, and the step retreating again. She flew to the door and opened it, to see the last flutter of a skirt disappearing, and hanging on the doorhandle—Patricia’s beautiful new sash of pale-green brocaded ribbon, with the shoulder-knots to match.
“Oh, my Sister, see!” cried Honor, the tears springing to her eyes. “See what Patricia has done! her very best sash! Oh, mayn’t I just run and give her a hug for thanks?”
“On no account!” The Sister’s face was shining with pleasure. “Our dear Patricia is making her salvation with assured steps; let no one cause her to stumble! Be tranquil, my child, that I arrange for thee this charming garniture! It completes to perfection a costume wholly jeune fille!”
In the little, richly gilt private salon of the hotel, Mrs. Damian received Honor with abrupt cordiality. She wore the costume of Honor’s dreams, minus the flounces and the ostrich plume. Her dark eyes were as bright as her diamonds, Honor thought, and the rich velvet set off her ivory skin and delicate high-bred features to perfection. As to the point lace, it was gathered in graceful folds at her throat, and crowned her snowy hair in a quaint and charming cap. Altogether, Honor thought her one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen. Admiration was evidently no new thing to Mrs. Damian, but it as evidently gave her pleasure; she smiled as Honor made her pretty reverence, and held out her fragile hand.