Finally, with care, she selected a lip-salve case from among many and held it thoughtfully for a moment against the creamy-white face. "Too red." Fantine sighed. Her weakness was for carmine lips, but she feared McTaggart's critical gaze, those keen and mischievous blue eyes. Picking out a paler shade, she passed it slowly over her mouth. At once the face became alive, losing the suggestion of a mask. Beneath the dark curls, bunched low on her ears, she coloured carefully each lobe, and, with her head tilted back, added a touch inside her nostrils. This singular performance over, she rose briskly to her feet, shed the filmy lace peignoir and stood before the long mirror. She nodded happily to her image, conscious of her perfect figure. In the shimmering long black silk tights with the frilled lace about her bosom, she looked like a dainty travesty of a Harlequin in a Transformation. Slipping quickly into her dress, she was sheathed now in black velvet; very severe but with a cut that whispered Paris in each line. She fastened a single deep red rose into the folds above her waist, then swayed slowly from side to side, very supple, her hands to her hips, a slight smile on the reddened lips. "Bon!" She reached back for her hat--a violet splash on the lace counterpane--settled it closely on her head, with a final touch to the glossy hair, doubly black now against the warmth of the crumpled purple velvet. At this moment the knocker sounded. Close at hand it seemed to clatter, for her bedroom door faced the entrance with only a narrow strip of hall. She heard the maid's step pass and then the well-known voice of McTaggart. "Entrez donc!" She cried gaily, "I am almost ready, Pierrot." Through the half-open door, glancing sideways with bright eyes, her hands still lifted to her head, she caught a glimpse of his laughing face. He hesitated on the threshold, drinking in the pretty picture of the dainty pink room with its gleaming mirror and silver toys and the perfect silhouette of Fantine in her sombre velvet dress. "Epatante! Comment ca va?" For he prided himself on a slender stock of French slang acquired mostly from a painstaking study of Willy's works. "You _do_ look nice!" He eased the strain of a conversation begun in French. "Just one?" He stooped down and lightly kissed her smiling lips. Then he stood back, holding her hands, and, with a comprehensive glance, looked her over from head to foot, touched anew by her feminine charm. "Only my boots now--and gloves, mon cher." Her eyes with their half-veiled topaz lights returned his gaze hardily, with an answering pressure of tiny hands. "Go, now--there's a good boy. Melanie!" she raised her voice--"vite! mes bottines." She sank down on a low chair, her feet outstretched. "Let me do it," McTaggart begged, "I'm sure I'd make a splendid maid." "No, no--Melanie." The sly face of the femme de chambre drove him effectually from the room.