At last she shook off her apathy, and tried to forget her sorrow. If she must appear in public she would not disgrace herself or her nation. She gave no thought to Monsieur Belleisle, but she rubbed her pale cheeks until the roses came, and then threw open the doors of her wardrobe to select a dress for that evening’s wear. ‘Select a dress!’ How farcial it seemed! Belleisle had spoken truly when he said that he had wed a beggar. The only dress which was at all fit for her to wear was one which had been presented to her by himself some two days after their marriage--a dress of black silk, very youthful in cut, displaying very freely her throat, neck, shoulders, and arms, and fastening in at the waist with an amber girdle--a dress Greek in design, French in the arrangement of colours, and looking most bewitching when draped about the figure of the sad-eyed English girl; whose arms were so round and white, whose shoulders so graceful and be fair, and whose whole appearance was pretty enough to subdue the most inveterate woman-hater in the world. Arrayed in her simple dress the child stood before the mirror well pleased with herself. ‘I should like dear, kind, good Mr. White to see me now,’ she said to herself. ‘I should like just now to run into the dear old studio in St. John’s Wood, without letting Timothy announce me, as he did once before, and throw my arms round my dear old guardian’s neck.’ A knock came to the door. ‘Madeline, _mon amie_, forgive me for interrupting you,’ said Madame de Fontenay, advancing slowly into the room; ‘I knocked twice and you did not answer me, so I thought you must be sleeping.’ Madeline bit her lip, pretended to arrange some stray locks of her hair, but said nothing. ‘_Ma foi_,’ continued the widow, ‘but you look charming; add this diamond and your toilette will be complete.’ As Madeline turned to face the widow, she started on seeing that she too wore evening dress. Madame de Fontenay looked more motherly, more thoroughly saddened with respectability, than ever she had been before. She wore a dress of heavy widow’s mourning--composed of silk, crape, and jet; a widow’s cap, composed of three pretty folds, crowned her wavy masses of glittering grey hair. ‘Do you go with us to-night, Madame?’ ‘Emile has done me the honour to ask me, and I have consented. I trust my presence will not be unpleasant to you, my child.’