"The stockings," Anna commanded.
Dressed, Lavinia Sanviano stood curiously before the long mirror; she
saw a fresh Lavinia that was yet the old; and she was absorbing her
first great lesson in the magic of clothes. Verlat, a celebrated
dressmaker, was typical of the Viennese spirit--the gown Lavinia wore
resembled, in all its implications, an orchid. There was a whisper here
of satin, a pale note of green, a promise of chiffon. Her crisp round
shoulders were bare; her finely molded arms were clouded, as it were,
with a pink mist; the skirt was full, incredibly airy; yet every
movement was draped by a suave flowing and swaying.
Lavinia recognized that she had been immensely enriched in effect; it
was not a question of mere beauty--beauty here gave way to a more
subtle and potent consideration. It was a potency which she
instinctively shrank from probing. For a moment she experienced,
curiously enough, a gust of passionate resentment, followed by a
quickly passing melancholy, a faint regret.
Anna Mantegazza and the maid radiated with satisfaction at the result
of their efforts. The former murmured a phrase that bore Gheta's name,
but Lavinia caught nothing else. The maid said:
"Without a doubt, madame."
Lavinia lingered in her room, strangely reluctant to go down and see
her sister. She was embarrassed by her unusual appearance and dreaded
the prominence of the inevitable exclamations. At last she was obliged
to proceed.
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