Now the sofa creaked beneath the weight of two dowagers.
“How soon they lose their republican simplicity over here!” said one, sipping a cup of tea.
“Oh, and they say the husband in America would not be presentable—a common sort of man; a carpenter, I believe,” retorted the other.
“Hush! A little more sugar, dear Mrs. Denvil. Thanks.”
Finally the rustling of dresses and murmur of voices ceased; Cecilia crept out of her retreat unperceived. She no longer sought a niche for San Donato in the salon. It seemed to her that the statue did not belong there. Mademoiselle had a headache; Cecilia ate her supper alone. Heaven had given her the precious gift of a thoughtful consideration for others. She took her own cologne flask to mademoiselle’s room and bathed the sufferer’s temples.
“Mademoiselle, did St. Cecilia despise the world?”
“Surely. She was a holy woman.”
“Are there any living like her now?”
“God knows,” said mademoiselle, with a little bitterness.