over me; my head was in a carnival. You must forgive or I shall be a maniac, I"
She turned and walked swiftly into the house and mounted to her room. All the pleasure she had had in the evening, the Viennese gown, evaporated, left her possessed by an utter loathing of self. Now, in the mirror, she seemed hateful, the clouded chiffon and airy clinging satin unspeakable. Looking back out of the dim glass was a stranger who had betrayed and cheapened her. Her pure serenity revolted against the currents of life sweeping down upon her, threatening to inundate her.
She unhooked the Verlat gown with trembling fingers and—once more in simple white—dropped into a deep chair, where she cried with short painful inspirations, her face pressed against her arm. Her emotion subsided, changed to a formless dread, and again to a black sense of helplessness. Suddenly she rose and mechanically shook loose her hair—footsteps were approaching. Her sister entered, pale and vindictive.
"You are to be congratulated," she proceeded thinly; "you made a success with everybody—that is, with all but Mochales. It was for him, wasn't it? You were very clever, but you failed ridiculously."
Lavinia made no reply.
"I hope Mochales excuses you because of your greenness."
"Youth isn't any longer your crime," Lavinia retorted at last.
"That dress—it would suit Anna Mantegazza; but you looked only indecent."
