Inside the old house, Irene went to her room, and Lily, instead of
seeking out her mother for their usual chat, went quietly upstairs. She
ignored even the preparations for the ball. After she had taken off her
clothes, she lay for a long time in a hot bath scented with verbena
salts, drowsing languidly until the hot water had eliminated every
soiling trace of the Mills. Returning to her room, she sat clad in a
thin satin wrapper for a long time before the mirror of her dressing
table, polishing her pink nails, examining the tiny lines at the corners
of her lips,--lines which came from smiling too much. Then she powdered
herself all over with scented powder and did up her red hair, fastening
it with the pin set in brilliants. And presently, the depression having
passed away, she began to sing in her low warm voice, _Je sais que vous
êtes gentil_. It was a full-throated joyous song. At times her voice
rose in a crescendo that penetrated the walls of the room where Irene
lay in the darkness on her narrow white bed.
As she dressed for dinner, she continued to sing one song after another,
most of them piquant and racy, songs of the French cuirassiers. She sang
_Sur la route á Montauban_, _Toute la longe de la Tamise_ and _Auprés de
ma Blonde_. The dressing was the languid performance which required an
hour or more, for she took the most minute care with every detail. The
chemise must not have a wrinkle; the peacock blue stockings must fit as
if they were the skin itself; the corsets were drawn until the result,
examined for many minutes before the glass, was absolutely perfect. At
the last she put on a gown of peacock blue satin with a long train that
swept about her ankles, and rang for one of the black servants to hook
it. Before the slavey arrived, Lily had discovered a wrinkle beneath the
satin and began all over again the process of dressing, until at the
end of the second attempt she stood before the mirror _soignée_ and
perfect in the soft glow from the open fire by her bed. The
tight-fitting gown of peacock blue followed the curves of her figure
flawlessly. Then she hung about her fine throat a chain of diamonds set
in a necklace of laurel leaves wrought delicately in silver, lighted a
cigarette and stood regarding her tall figure by the light of the lamps.
Among the old furniture of the dark room she stood superbly dressed,
elegant, _mondaine_. A touch to the hair that covered her small head
like a burnished helmet, and she smiled with satisfaction, the face in
the mirror smiling back with a curious look of elation, of abundant
health, of joy; yet there was in it something too of secrecy and
triumph.