fashion and with
merely a trace of powder. The most unusual and characteristic element in
her appearance was a white, translucent complexion with touches of
colour, and as she was also dressed in white, lightly embroidered with
gold, she seemed to Lecour, in the radiant, unreal wax-light, so
ethereal as to have just come from heaven. So vision-like and wonderful
to him was her beauty that he gasped when she turned to him to speak.

"Your _chef_ is a real Watteau, Monsieur--a marvel at design."

"He doubtless dreamt what stars were to beam over his landscape,
Madame," he answered, for he had at least kept grip of his wits.

"What stars, Monsieur?"

"My lady's eyes, n'est-ce pas?" he answered.

The stars thus eulogised brimmed with smiles and searched his face.

"Monsieur," said the Canoness, who was not quite so young, but very
pretty, "you should have applied that compliment to _all_ of our eyes. I
am in the habit of pleading for the community, as we do in my convent."

"None of these ladies, including yourself, Madame, have any need of
compliments, in my humble opinion."

"You deserve a reward, sir. Our Chapter is giving some Arcadian
receptions, and you shall be one of the shepherds. We have absolute
idylls of white sheep in our garden, though we cannot go to the length,
of course, of wearing those old costumes of the nymphs and
shepherdesses. How entrancing those costumes were," she added with a
careless sigh.

The Canoness was an extraordinary curiosity to him. She was _petite_ and
fair. Though a _religieuse_, she wore crinoline and large paniers, and,
was elegantly furbelowed. The colours of her dress were mainly white and
gold, but a long light robe of black crape was thrown over her
shoulders, and the jewelled cross of an order ornamented her breast.

"Did the ancient nymphs know any better?" cried Mademoiselle de
Richeval, who sat a couple of places further on. "Do you not believe
that if they lived to-day they would patronise our fashions?"

"Know any better? Do you think they were unconscious that to carry a
crook is becoming to the arm? No, they were as careful of their crooks
as we of our rouges. What is _your_ judgment, Monsieur de Repentigny?"

"It is a Judgment of Paris you require," he exclaimed, "and I have not
been there yet."

Cyrene de la Roche Vernay touched her lovely hand quickly upon the table
and turned to him with a delighted little laugh.

"As for me, I shall be glad if these