Wistaria had greeted the Philosopher with the quiet
warmth of manner which means assured acquaintance, and the two had
remained together while we waited for the serving of the dinner.
"She is very charming," I agreed. "It is her manner, quite as much as
her face, isn't it? She must be well worth knowing."
"We think so," said he. He seemed to be regarding me quite steadily. I
wondered uneasily if I were not looking well. The rooms seemed rather
over-warm. The presence of so many people in such a small space is apt
to make the air oppressive. Also I remembered that the effect of
pale-gray is not to heighten one's colouring.
Wistaria, all in filmy black, from which her white shoulders rose like
a flower, wore one splendid American Beauty rose. Somehow I felt, quite
suddenly, that pale-gray is a meaningless tint, the mere shadow of a
colour, of less character than white, of immeasurably less beauty than
simple black itself. I caught the Philosopher's eye apparently fixed for
a moment upon my violets, and I wondered, with a queer little sensation
of disquiet, if even they seemed to be without character also.
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