Elizabeth flung up her head in a quick way. She was all in sheer pale yellow, bordered with daffodils, and there was a twist of gold ribbon in her fair hair. Only extreme youth could have worn it, and, as she flashed her answer back to Anne, I had never seen her more beautiful.
"The count wouldn't have me as a precious gift," she said. "I'm too crude. He likes a more finished product—like you, dear Mrs. Beaumont."
"Now, what do you suppose she meant by that?" said Anne that night, when we were in our kimonos and were comforting our complexions with cold cream. "Do you think she meant it for a compliment, or was it a reflection on my age?"
"No one can reflect on your age," I told her. "Nobody knows it but Charlemagne and me, and we won't tell."
"That's the advantage of living on the other side and coming back to meet the younger generation," said Anne; "they haven't kept tab on the years."
She got up and moved restlessly about the room. With the cream on her face and with her hair down, she looked old, and I had a vision of Elizabeth in the yellow gown.
Perhaps something of my thought showed, for Anne stopped suddenly and gazed into a long mirror set in the door. "Oh, youth, youth, Sophie," she cried.
"Anne," I said, "come away from that mirror. No one can be beautiful with her face full of cold cream."
She laughed and dropped down on the rug in front of me, and after a while she said, "Did you hear what he said to-night?"