Wanda has made herself comfortable. She is sitting in a neglige of
white muslin and laces on a small red divan with her feet on a
footstool that matches. She has thrown her fur-cloak about her. It is
the identical cloak in which she appeared to me for the first time, as
goddess of love.
The yellow lights of the candelabra which stand on projections, their
reflections in the large mirrors, and the red flames from the open
fireplace play beautifully on the green velvet, the dark-brown sable of
the cloak, the smooth white skin, and the red, flaming hair of the
beautiful woman. Her clear, but cold face is turned toward me, and her
cold green eyes rest upon me.
“I am satisfied with you, Gregor,” she began.