She lifted up arms that might have been a dream of Phidias chiselled in Parian marble, and stretched them luxuriously. She was superbly alive, indeed—and henceforth she meant to live. Only she must be careful to retain her looks ... If Youth must surely go, Beauty must linger and reign long in its stead.
A maid, a comely creature, trim and smart in black and white, with that vividly coloured prettiness which is too often the omen of premature decline into the fat and florid thirties, fetched a wrap and settled it upon Sofia’s shoulders.
Long and dark, it disguised her figure as completely as it covered her toilette. She nodded her satisfaction, and accepted the veil which she had desired to complete her disguise, a thing of Spanish lace, black and ample, like a mantilla. But before donning it she delayed one minute more before the mirror.
“Thérèse! Am I still beautiful?”
“Madame la princesse is always beautiful.”
“As beautiful as I used to be?”
“But madame la princesse grows more lovely every day.”
“Beautiful enough to-night, to keep out of jail, do you think?”
To the mirth in the voice of her mistress the maid responded with a smile demure and discreet.
“Oh, madame!” was all she said; but the manner of her saying it was rarely eloquent.