There was
passion and power both lurking behind the pearl-tinted mask.
Her attitudes were the perfection of grace--apparently, too, of unstudied
grace, which is the mark of the highest art in posing. She sat in a
purple velvet easy-chair, whose trying color set off her fine complexion
perfectly. Her voice was low and well modulated, but it had no
sympathetic chords; and therefore I could not call it musical or
pleasing. She thanked me in very exaggerated terms for having responded
to her appeal.
I exclaimed, rather impulsively, in reply--
"I expected to find the author of that pathetic letter in great distress,
and came, hoping to relieve; but I cannot be of any service here." I
glanced around the luxuriously appointed room, and then let my eyes rest
on her elaborate costume.
She smiled, "You are young, and have not yet learned that rags and
poverty seldom go hand in hand with the bitterest experiences of life."
"That is the only kind of trouble I am sufficiently experienced to meddle
with. For imaginary or abstract woe you should seek some older helper.
I would suggest Mrs. Flaxman. She has more patience with refined mourners
than I."
"Mrs. Flaxman could do me no good."
Tears stood in her eyes, making them more beautiful than ever, and quite
softening my heart.
"Won't you lay aside some of your wraps? I shall feel then as if you will
not desert me at any moment. The room is warm, and they are only an
incumbrance."
I complied, and removed my hat and fur cloak, which were beginning to
make me uncomfortably warm.
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