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The love a woman inspires in any man's
heart is flattery without hypocrisy, and it is impossible for some
women to forego it; but when that man belongs to a friend, his homage
gives more than pleasure,--it gives delight. Beatrix sat down beside
her friend and began to coax her prettily.
"You have not a white hair," she said; "you haven't even a wrinkle;
your temples are just as fresh as ever; whereas I know more than one
woman of thirty who is obliged to cover hers. Look, dear," she added,
lifting her curls, "see what that journey to Italy has cost me."
Her temples showed an almost imperceptible withering of the texture of
the delicate skin. She raised her sleeves and showed Camille the same
slight withering of the wrists, where the transparent tissue suffered
the blue network of swollen veins to be visible, and three deep lines
made a bracelet of wrinkles.
"There, my dear, are two spots which--as a certain writer ferreting
for the miseries of women, has said--never lie," she continued. "One
must needs have suffered to know the truth of his observation.


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