"These flowers are from her own home," Melusine explained; "iris from the Volga and roses from Daghestan. She has a waggon-load sent every month, as she thinks the flowers here very poor. They are beautiful, aren't they?" she added, with her face buried in a large bunch.
"Not more so than she!" I murmured, not knowing what I said.
Melusine gave me a smiling glance. She was dressed in a gown of ivory satin under a tunic of tulle embroidered with iridescent pearls. No jewels, save for a necklace of pink pearls round her smooth throat.
Her whole personality, elegant, languid and perfumed, spoke in that smile.
"Yes, she is," was all she said.
Then with sudden irony:
"So it was her flowers that suggested herself? I shall tell her."
"I beg of you, Fräulein ..."
"No, no! I want you to know her. You must come and see us. We get bored, you know, seeing no one but little Hagen. He isn't always amusing."
"He is in love with her, I suppose," I said, drawing close up to her.