OSETTE sat enthroned in her high-backed chair, and I from my my usual place gazed and gazed again. Her beautiful, delicate white gown gleamed rose-colored when she moved, and when the light changed on the shimmering satin folds. There was a pink hollyhock bloom in her black hair, and her eyes were maddening; her cheeks were most exquisitely flushed.
"Oh, Rosette, why are you so very, very beautiful?" said I, sorrowfully. She smiled divinely.
"Am I? More than usual, Jerry? Is it my new gown, do you suppose?"
"It's everything," said I, hopelessly; for, indeed, it was not fair. "And it's cruel, wicked, unsportsmanlike of you. Rosette."
"It's a woman's sacred duty to make the most of the looks God gave her," said she, softly.
"Then in this at least you are a dutiful child," I admitted sullenly.
"It's not entirely the result of cultivation," said she, humbly; "you must admit that I've a good deal of capital, Jerry."
I looked at her cheeks and lips and hair and eyes, and silently assented.
"I'm not a made-up thing," cried she, hurt. "It's not kind of you, Jerry, to suggest that I depend upon powder and paint for the effect!"
"Don't!" said I, and my tone was enough, for she smiled again.
"Most women do," said she. "If you only knew! Women aren't as beautiful as they used to be. They can't be. More of them are pretty and attractive, because they can hide their ugly foreheads with hair now, and have their faces massaged when wrinkles begin. But I don't think the really lovely ones are either so many or so lovely. Do you?"
I looked at her, and answered only with my eyes.
"Now, in the old days—you remember how the beautiful Misses Gunning had to be guarded by soldiers when they walked in the park. And even Lucille's grandmother—you've heard that story, haven't you?"
"No," said I, to please her.
"Well, she was walking with her sister in Plymouth town, and, as they passed a group of officers, they heard one of them say: 'By God! they're painted!' 'No; sir,' said Lucille's grandmother, turning and sweeping a curtsey—'painted by God.'"
"It's a very good story," said I, gloomily.
"You're not very cheerful company to-night, Jerry." She smiled at me. How could I be cheerful when I loved her so, and knew so well that she was not for me? She looked at me steadily for a minute or two.
"Beauty in some ways is a handicap," she said slowly. "Do you know, Jerry, that it seems to me almost as humiliating to be loved for one's beauty as for one's money. And it gives false values for a short time. Money, after all, doesn't vanish like one's good looks, with years. How is one to know what one will have left when one's beauty goes? Oh, Jerry,"—her voice almost broke,—"shall I, do you think—shall I have anything at all when—when—"
"Rosette!" I caught her hand, but she took it gently away. She always does.
"You've heard me speak of my sister Penelope?" said she.
"Yes, of course." I sank back to my lowly seat with a sigh.
"She was the beauty, you know, the flower of the flock. She's ten years older than I, and she's been married six years. I adored her, and I never see her now; for she married quite a poor mail, and lives at the other end of the world."
"She married for love, didn't she?" I asked, looking wistfully at Rosette.
"Yes—poor darling." Rosette spoke in a low voice. "She was very, very beautiful, Jerry. The Sargent picture of her only half shows how lovely she was. I adored her, and so did most other people. But—if you can imagine such a thing—she was sick to death of admiration, and she wanted to be loved for herself, not for her pretty face. It—it really worried her, Jerry, to be so handicapped by her looks. Daddy wanted her to make a good marriage, and when Sir John Myles proposed to her—by letter, both he and mother did their best to make her say yes. But you see, Dick, our second cousin—Dick Carey—wrote the same day, and he was very poor—as poor—as poor as—"
"As I?" I asked sadly.
"Well, hardly that; but still unspeakably poor. And Penelope liked them both tremendously. She liked Sir John because he was so trustworthy and good and kind and all that sort of thing. She said he was a perfect rock of silent strength. But she liked Dick, too. Principally I think because he was Dick, and because he was always there when he was wanted—just as you are, Jerry."
"Rosette!" I half rose from my seat.
"Poor Penelope!" said Rosette, wistfully. "She did have a wretched time trying to decide. She used to talk to me about it, because she said I was so wise for my age. I've always been considered wise, Jerry."
"Go on," said I.