But, as
Priscilla was only a leaf floating on the dark current of events,
without influencing them by her own choice or plan, as she probably
guessed not whither the stream was bearing her, nor perhaps even felt
its inevitable movement,--there could be no peril of her
communicating to me any intelligence with regard to Zenobia's
purposes.
On perceiving me, she came forward with great quietude of manner; and
when I held out my hand, her own moved slightly towards it, as if
attracted by a feeble degree of magnetism.
"I am glad to see you, my dear Priscilla," said I, still holding her
hand; "but everything that I meet with nowadays makes me wonder
whether I am awake. You, especially, have always seemed like a
figure in a dream, and now more than ever."
"Oh, there is substance in these fingers of mine," she answered,
giving my hand the faintest possible pressure, and then taking away
her own. "Why do you call me a dream? Zenobia is much more like one
than I; she is so very, very beautiful! And, I suppose," added
Priscilla, as if thinking aloud, "everybody sees it, as I do."
But, for my part, it was Priscilla's beauty, not Zenobia's, of which
I was thinking at that moment. She was a person who could be quite
obliterated, so far as beauty went, by anything unsuitable in her
attire; her charm was not positive and material enough to bear up
against a mistaken choice of color, for instance, or fashion. It was
safest, in her case, to attempt no art of dress; for it demanded the
most perfect taste, or else the happiest accident in the world, to
give her precisely the adornment which she needed.
Pages:
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207