She went to meet him, looking all simplicity and
freshness in her white morning gown and neat little Dunstable hat. It
seemed to him as he gazed at her almost as if this delicate, sylph-like
beauty were some wild white flower of the woods personified.
She gave him her hand graciously, but he drew her to his breast and
kissed her, with the air of a man who was exercising an indisputable
right. She supposed that it was his right, and she submitted, but
released herself as quickly as possible.
'My dearest, how lovely you look in this morning light,' he exclaimed,
'while all the other women are upstairs making up their faces to meet
the sun, and we shall see every shade of bismuth by-and-by, from pale
mauve to purple.'
'It is very uncivil of you to say such a thing of your guests,'
exclaimed Lesbia.
'But they all indulge in bismuth--you must be quite aware of that. They
call the stuff by different names--Blanc Rosati, Creme de l'Imperatrice,
Milk of Beauty, Perline, Opaline, Ivorine--but it means bismuth all the
same. Expose your fashionable beauty to the fumes of sewer-gas, and that
dazzling whiteness would turn to a dull brown hue, or even black.
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