It was nearly midday, and the glaring sunshine without beat on the yellow blind and cast a close dun light into the large dark chamber, which was handsomely furnished and luxuriously untidy; on the inlaid dressing-table beside the Countess a cup of cold chocolate and a plate of Naples cakes stood among curling-irons, pots of rouge, and bottles of Hungary water; a bunch of dead flowers lay on the floor and a broken fan; over the back of a painted chair hung silk and velvet garments, and a black mask dangled from them by its fall of lace.
The Countess yawned; her youthfulness had vanished before the life of a lady of fashion, she looked ten years older than her age, sallow without her powder and undistinguished without her splendid attire; her eyes were shadowed and wretched, her mouth dragged; she might be a beauty by candle-light, she was no longer a beauty in her own chamber.
She caught up a worn book in a paper cover and wearily fluttered the pages, but the stale romance could not hold her; she looked up eagerly when the door opened, and even faintly smiled as her maid entered.
Honoria Pryse crossed the room in her quick, delicate way; her shrewd, clear-cut face was slightly flushed.
"You have been a long time," said her mistress. "What have you been doing?"
Honoria put her hand to the muslin fichu crossed over her bosom.
"I have something to tell you, my lady."
The Countess sat up, jerking the dog off her dress.
"What?" she pitched the book across the room; it hit the leg of a chair, and fell on the floor, an untidy mass of twisted pages; the spaniel whined peevishly.