May 29th.
I sent her word that I would take her for a drive this afternoon. She was to be ready at three o’clock. It will be wholesome for her to regard her outings with me as rare occurrences to be highly valued. Ordinarily she will go out with Antoinette—for the present at least—as she did yesterday.
At three o’clock Stenson informed me that the cab was at the door.
“Go up and call Mademoiselle,” said I.
In two or three minutes she came down. I have not had such a shock in my life. I uttered exclamations of amazement in several languages. I have never seen on the stage or off such a figure as she presented. Her cheeks were white with powder, her lips dyed a pomegranate scarlet, her eyebrows and lashes blackened. In her ears she wore large silver-gilt earrings. She entered the room with an air of triumph, as who should say: “See how captivatingly beautiful I am!”
At my stare of horror her face fell. At my command to go upstairs and wash herself clean, she wept.
“For heaven’s sake, don’t cry,” I exclaimed, “or you will look like a rainbow.”
“I did it to please you,” she sobbed.
“It is only the lowest class of dancing-women who paint their faces in England,” said I, splendide mendax. “And you know what they are in Alexandretta.”
“They came to Aziza-Zaza’s wedding,” said Carlotta, behind her handkerchief. “But all our ladies do this when they want to make themselves look nice. And I have put on this nasty thing that hurts me, just to please Seer Marcous.”