She led him into an antechamber, a small place of mirrors and satin chairs, lit, not too brightly, with tall white candles.
"Why did you not come properly masked?" demanded the Countess, setting free his arm. "Anyone could know you."
"I had no object to serve in being disguised, madam."
"Oh, la!" cried Lady Lyndwood.
She flung herself along a pale-coloured settee, a mirror behind her, and loosened her domino, and took off her mask.
Her dress was purple, an enormous hoop ruched and frilled, a tight bodice cut low; her face showed an unnatural white, her lips an unshaded scarlet. On the cluster of violets at her bosom powder had fallen, whitening them; in her high-dressed hair were pearls.
Marius had never liked these bright colours that she wore, nor associated them with anything that was desirable in woman. He stared at her intently, thinking of muslins and a chip hat in the gardens of the Luxembourg, and brown curls blowing against fresh cheeks. He blamed Rose, something hotly, for this distortion of simple charm into attraction unnatural and fantastically, unhappily splendid; yet he himself found a fascination in her paint, her flaring colours, her scornful eyes. She did it very well, and he could not altogether ignore the fact that she had ransacked her armoury for his conquest. It was flattering, even if unworthy, that she should so well remember that childish romance.
He leant against the doorway and waited for her to speak. He was glad to keep on his own mask, and pleased she had removed hers.
"What does Miss Chressham want my lord for?" demanded the Countess.