"
So Edith donned the pink dress, and clasping upon her neck and
arms the delicate ornaments made from Nina's hair, asked of
Arthur, "How she looked."
"Splendidly," he replied, "Handsomer even than on our bridal
night."
And Edith was handsomer than on the night when she stood at the
altar a bride, for six years of almost perfect happiness had
chased away the restless, careworn, sorrowful look which was fast
becoming habitual, and now, at twenty-six, Edith St. Claire was
pronounced by the world the most strikingly beautiful woman of her
age. Poets had sung of her charms, artists had transferred them to
canvas; brainless beaux, who would as soon rave about a married
woman as a single one, provided it were the fashion so to do, had
stamped them upon their hearts; envious females had picked them
all to pieces, declaring her too tall, too black, too hoydenish to
be even pretty; while little Dick and Nina likened her to the
angels, wondering if there were anything in heaven, save Aunt
Nina, as beautiful as she. And this was Edith, who when her toilet
was completed went down to meet Grace Atherton just arrived and
greatly flurried when she heard that Richard had come.
Pages:
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605