She wheeled another easy-chair and bade me
take that; my eyes, grown suddenly keen, took in the fact that the velvet
covering was suited to my complexion.
"What artistic taste you must have when you are so fastidious about
harmony in colors," I said, admiringly.
"One might as well get all the possible consolation out of things. The
time for enjoying them is short, and very uncertain."
She drew a low ottoman and sat down close to me. "I have a long, sad
story to tell you, and I want to be within touch of your hand. You will
perhaps be too hard on me."
She sat, her face turned partly from me, gazing intently into the fire.
Perhaps she had a natural dread of going over a chapter in her life she
might wish had never been written.
Meanwhile the wonder kept growing on me why this exquisite woman should
come to me for sympathy. A feeling of pride, too, began swelling my heart
to think that I could be of use to others than the hungry and naked,
while I thought of the surprising account I should have to give at the
dinner-table that evening, of my adventure. My self-complacency was
destined to a rude shock. She turned to me suddenly, and asked, "How
old would you take me to be?" I looked my surprise, no doubt, but began
directly to examine critically the face before me. "I want you to tell
me the truth. We don't value flattery from our own sex; at least, I do
not."
I could see no trace of time's unwelcome tooth in that smooth, ivory
skin, as unwrinkled as a baby's face, while the rounded outlines and
dimples would have graced a debutante.
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