at matter. Your dress is as your
dressmaker sends it to you. Yes; but, my angel, Bice has her career
before her. It is different."

"Oh, Madame di Forno-Populo," said Lucy, "do you still think in that
way--must it still be exhibiting her, marrying her?"

"Marriage is honourable," said the Contessa. "It is what all girls are
thinking of; but me, I think it better that their parents should take it
in hand instead of the young ladies. There is something in Bice that is
difficult, oh, very difficult. If one chooses well for her, one will be
richly repaid; but if, on the contrary, one leaves it to the
conventional, the ordinary--My sweetest! your pretty white dresses, your
blues are delightful for you; but Bice is different, quite different.
And then she has no fortune. She must be piquant. She must be striking.
She must please. In England you take no trouble for that. It is not
_comme il faut_ here; but it is in our country. Each of us we like the
ways of our country best."

"I have often wondered," said Lucy, "to hear you speak such perfect
English, and Bice too. It is, I suppose, because you are so musical and
have such good ears----"

"Darling!" said the Contessa sweetly. She said this or a similar word
when nothing else occurred to her. She had her room full of lovely
stuffs, brought by obsequious shopmen, to whom Lady Randolph's name was
sufficient warrant for any extravagance the Contessa might think of. But
she said to herself that she was not at all extravagant; for Bice's
wardrobe was her stock-in-trade, and if she did not take the opportunity
of securing it while in her power, the Contessa thought she would be
false to Bice's interests. The girl still wore nothing but her black
frock. She went out in the park early in the morning when nobody was
there, and sometimes had riding lessons at an unearthly hour, so that
nobody should see her. The Contessa was very anxious on this point. When
Lucy would have taken Bice out driving, when she would have taken her
to the theatre, her patroness instantly interfered. "All that will come
in its time," she said. "Not now. She must not appear now. I cannot have
her seen. Recollect, my Lucy, she has no fortune. She must depend upon
herself for everything." This doctrine, at which Lucy stood aghast, was
maintained in the most matter-of-fact way by the neophyte herself. "If I
were seen," she said, "now, I should be quite stale when I appear. I
must appear before I go anywhere.