As a matter of fact, he had decided the point to his own
satisfaction the night before. She should pose for him in the dainty
white dress she had worn on that occasion.
While they were going over the extensive assortment of gowns,
with Sara as the judge from whom there seemed to be no appeal, he
casually inquired if she had ever posed before.
Two ladies' maids were engaged in flinging the costly garments
about as if they represented so much rubbish. The floor was littered
with silks and satins and laces. He was accustomed to this ruthless
handling of exquisite fabrics by eager ladies of wealth: it was
one way these pampered women had of showing their contempt for
possession. Gowns came from everywhere by the armload; from closets,
presses and trunks, ultimately landing in a conglomerate heap on
the floor when cast aside as undesirable by the artist, the model
and the censor.
He watched her closely as he put the question. She was holding up
a beautiful point lace creation for his inspection, and there was
a pleading smile on her lips. It must have been her favourite gown.
The smile faded away. The hand that dangled the garment before
his eyes suddenly became motionless, as if paralysed. In the next
instant, she recovered herself, and, giving the lace a quick fillip
that sent its odour of sachet leaping to his nostrils, responded
with perfect composure.
Pages:
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193