"Are there any living like her now?"

"God knows," said mademoiselle, with a little bitterness.

Cecilia kissed her governess, and closed the door softly. Her mood was
a strange one. She no longer feared her mother. Something had escaped
from her nature, as if she had been touched by fire. It was that
subtle, perishable essence of being--childhood.

"I will play that I am a ghost, and walk through all the rooms," she
said to herself.

Mrs. Denvil found her standing in her dressing-room, calmly regarding
her, as she made her toilet for a ball at the Quirinal Palace.

"Why are you not in bed? It is ten o'clock," she said.

Cecilia made no reply. She was gazing at the picture reflected in
the cheval-glass of a very pretty woman in cream-tinted satin robe
scarcely retained on her dimpled shoulders by a strap, diamonds and
pearls twinkling about her throat and in her hair. The face of the
mother, round, soft, with small weak chin and bright eyes, appeared
more youthful than that of her child at the moment. The dressing-room
was littered with a rainbow of colors, wraps, dresses, cashmere,
laces, and jewelry. It smelled of mingled perfumes and singed hair.
Beauty, the poodle, lay coiled up in a tiny white ball on a velvet
cushion. How fashionable had Mrs. Denvil become! She never drove out
or received company without Beauty tucked under her left arm. At
length the daughter inquired in an odd, abrupt way: "Is it very
delightful to attend so many balls?"

Mrs. Denvil laughed nervously and adjusted a bracelet.

"I attend very few balls, my dear. You will like the dancing, I dare
say, when you come out as a young lady." Her tone was propitiatory,
even deprecating.

Cecilia did not smile.

"Why does not papa live here with us?" she pursued, steadily, after a
pause.

Mrs. Denvil was a weak woman; she moved uneasily, then took refuge in
maternal dignity.

"I am in Europe to educate Jack and yourself. Papa and I make the
sacrifice of being separated for your good, and that you may acquire
the foreign languages," she explained, in an injured tone.

Cecilia's eyebrows contracted.

"Are there no good schools or governesses, then, in America?"

"Go to bed, you impertinent child!" said Mrs. Denvil, sharply.

She was ruffled, embarrassed, strangely disturbed, by the curious
scrutiny of her daughter. She would have kissed her but for that last
question. Really it was too much to be asked if there were no schools
in Amer