'Ah--_my_ arm-chair!' she was on the point of exclaiming, for she recognised an old friend, but she stopped herself in time.
The chair was deep and roomy, and covered with antique leather on which pale dragons ramped in relief, after the style of the wall decorations of one of the rooms in the Chigi palace. The leather had taken on that warm and sumptuous tone which recalls the background of certain Venetian portraits, or a fine bronze still retaining traces of former gilding, or a piece of tortoise-shell with gleams of gold here and there. A great cushion covered with a piece of a dalmatic of faded colouring--of that peculiar shade which the Florentine silk merchants used to call 'rosa di gruogo,' saffron red, contributed to its inviting easiness.
Elena seated herself in it, placing on the tea-table beside her her right hand glove and her card-case, a fragile toy in polished silver with a device and motto engraven on it. She then proceeded to remove her veil, raising her arms high to unfasten the knot, her graceful attitude throwing gleams of changeful light on the velvet of her coat, along the sleeves and over the contour of her bust. The heat of the fire was very strong, and with her bare hand, which shone transparent like rosy alabaster, she screened her face from it. The rings on her fingers glittered in the firelight.
'Please screen the fire,' she said, 'it is really too fierce.'
'What--have you lost your fondness for the flames?--and you used to be a perfect salamander. This hearth is full of memories----'
'Let memory sleep,--do not stir the embers,' she interrupted him. 'Screen the fire and let us have some light. I will make the tea.'
She rose with a little gesture of impatience. 'Very well then--help me, please.'
As he helped her off with the mantle, Andrea noticed that the scent was not the same as the familiar one of old. However, it was so delicious that it thrilled his every sense.
'You have a new scent,' he said with peculiar emphasis.
'Yes,' she answered simply, 'do you like it?'
Andrea still held the mantle in his hands. He buried his face in the fur collar which had been next her throat and her hair--'What is it called?' he inquired.
She re-seated herself in the arm-chair within the circle of the firelight. Her dress was of black lace, on which sparkled a mass of tiny jet and steel beads.