"I am here, dearie," murmured her mother, even more softly. Annie Clarke lay stretched upon a large sofa that filled up a whole corner of the room; her head, which had been carefully dressed and the hair passed discreetly through henna, was leaning in a tired way on a pillow of oriental stuff covered with quaint, old lace. A pure white bear-skin, stretched over her knees, covered the edge of the sofa and fell on the ground like a soft white carpet. Around Annie Clarke, on the great bear-skin, on a table beside her, on little tables placed within her reach, were a hundred different objects; a writing-case with everything necessary for writing, a row of flasks and little bottles for salts, scents, and medicines; bundles of unopened reviews, bundles of uncut books, manicure-case, silver and gold boxes of all dimensions for cipria, pastes and pins; paper-knives, another nécessaire for opening letters, a large glass filled with a milky drink, wherein was immersed a golden spoon, and close to her right hand was a silver-gilt pear studded with turquoises—the electric bell. But Annie Clarke performed none of these operations, since Mrs. Broughton or Fanny, the trusted maid, before leaving her had gathered around her whatever might be useful to her. There was Annie Clarke, impassive, tranquil; not sad, not happy, perhaps not even thoughtful. On the third finger of her right hand shone an enormous diamond, a most rare jewel; but she wore no other jewels. With a smile Mabel Clarke drew near her mother and bent her head over her. Annie gave a fleeting kiss to her daughter's flowing, rebellious locks, and then offered a smooth and expressionless cheek to be kissed.
"How are you, mammy?"
"I am cold, dearie."
"Cold?"
"Very cold."
Mabel threw a glance at the broad window that almost cut off one of the walls of that room in the "Palace," and which looked out over the lake. In the peculiar frame of light wood which the opened shutters formed and that really seemed like the frame of a vast picture, behind the shining windows, right opposite there was to be seen, but extraordinarily near, a huge mass of the deepest green, the dense wood of Acla Silva, which no house or cottage disturbs. Over the virgin wood a fringe of brightest, almost shimmering blue—the sky; beneath the wood a fringe of steel-blue, motionless and scintillating—the lake. And everything was enveloped and penetrated by the purest light.
"The weather is so beautiful," added Mabel in a harmonious voice. "You are cold because you do not go out."
"I am not a sport like you, Mabel. You know that," exclaimed Annie, shaking her head.
"Ah, que j'adore ce pays!" exclaimed the beautiful girl suddenly in French, with a strong American accent; and the exclamation bubbled forth like a cry of joy, as she smiled delightfully.
"You are right," murmured her mother tranquilly.