The hair was simply arranged with a plain narrow band of black velvet
around the white temples, and the soft loops of cloudy darkness drawn
out on her cheeks in her own fantastic way. There was an attempt at
demureness in the gown; soft folds of pure transparent nothing seemed to
shelter what they could not hide, and more such folds drooped over the
lovely arms to the elbows. Surely, surely, this was loveliness
undefiled. The words of Peer Gynt came floating back disconnectedly,
more as a puzzled question in his mind than as they stand in the story:
"Is your psalm-book in your 'kerchief?
Do you glance adown your apron?
Do you hold your mother's skirt-fold?
Speak!"
But he only looked at her admiringly, and talked on about the college
games, making himself agreeable to every one, and winning more and more
the lifted pansy-eyes.
When dinner was over they drifted informally into a large
white-and-gold reception-room, with inhospitable chairs and settees
whose satin slipperiness offered no inducements to sit down. There were
gold-lacquered tables and a curious concert-grand piano, also gold
inlaid with mother-of-pearl cupids and flowers. Everything was most
elaborate. Gila, in her soft transparencies, looked like a wraith amid
it all. The young man chose to think she was too rare and fine for a
place so ornate.
Presently the fat cooky arms of the mother were enfolded in a gorgeous
blue-plush evening cloak beloaded with handsome black fur; and with many
bows and kindly words the little husband toddled off beside her,
reminding Courtland of a big cinnamon bear and a little black-and-tan
dog he had once seen together in a show.
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