She was now
dressed in pure white, set off with some kind of a gauzy fabric,
which--as I bring up her figure in my memory, with a faint gleam on
her shadowy hair, and her dark eyes bent shyly on mine, through all
the vanished years--seems to be floating about her like a mist. I
wondered what Zenobia meant by evolving so much loveliness out of
this poor girl. It was what few women could afford to do; for, as I
looked from one to the other, the sheen and splendor of Zenobia's
presence took nothing from Priscilla's softer spell, if it might not
rather be thought to add to it.
"What do you think of her?" asked Zenobia.
I could not understand the look of melancholy kindness with which
Zenobia regarded her. She advanced a step, and beckoning Priscilla
near her, kissed her cheek; then, with a slight gesture of repulse,
she moved to the other side of the room. I followed.
"She is a wonderful creature," I said. "Ever since she came among us,
I have been dimly sensible of just this charm which you have brought
out. But it was never absolutely visible till now. She is as lovely
as a flower!"
"Well, say so if you like," answered Zenobia. "You are a poet,--at
least, as poets go nowadays,--and must be allowed to make an
opera-glass of your imagination, when you look at women. I wonder,
in such Arcadian freedom of falling in love as we have lately enjoyed,
it never occurred to you to fall in love with Priscilla. In society,
indeed, a genuine American never dreams of stepping across the
inappreciable air-line which separates one class from another.
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