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THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL 49
But the Baroness ! Pale as death, with hollow cheeks,
she looked more fragile than ever. Her bangles jingled
at her wrists ; her slender neck rose from her collar, plainly
showing the blue arteries winding towards the ears which,
owing to the careless way in which she had arranged her
hair, stood out from her head more than usual. She was
badly dressed, too. The colours of her frock were crude,
and did not blend. I could not help thinking that she
was downright plain, and, as I looked at her, my heart was
filled with compassion, and I cursed my recent conduct
towards her. This woman a coquette ? She was a saint,
a martyr, bearing undeserved sorrow.
The steamer started. The lovely August evening on
the Lake of Malar tempted one to peaceful dreams.
Was it accidental or intended ? The little cousin and
the Baron were sitting side by side at a distance sufficiently
great to prevent our overhearing each other. Leaning
towards her, he talked and laughed incessantly, with the
gay, rejuvenated face of an accepted lover.
From time to time he looked at us, slyly, and we nodded
and smiled back.
"A jolly girl, the little one, isn’t she? " remarked the
Baroness.
"It seems so," I answered, uncertain how to take her
remark.
"She knows how to cheer up my melancholy husband.
I don’t possess that gift," she added, with a frank and
kindly smile at the group.
And as she spoke the lines of her face betrayed sup-
pressed sorrow, tears held back, superhuman resignation ;
across her features glided, cloud-like, those incom-
prehensible reflections of kindness, resignation and
self-denial, common to pregnant women and young
mothers.
Ashamed of my misinterpretation of her character, tor-
E
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