Margaret was very fond of warm greys, and fawn tints, and dove colour, and she had lately got a very pretty dress that was exactly to her taste, and was made of a newly invented thin material of pure silk, which had no sheen and cast no reflections of light, and was slightly elastic, so that it fitted as no ordinary silk or velvet ever could.  Alphonsine called the gown a ‘legend,’ but a celebrated painter who had lately seen it said it was an ‘Indian twilight,’ which might mean anything, as Paul Griggs explained, because there is no twilight to speak of in India.  The dress-maker who had made it called the colour ‘fawn’s stomach,’ which was less poetical, and the fabric, ’veil of nun in love,’ which showed little respect for monastic institutions.  As for the way in which the dress was made, it is folly to rush into competition with tailors and dress-makers, who know what they are talking about, and are able to say things which nobody can understand.

The plain fact is that the Primadonna began to dress early, out of sheer boredom, had her thick brown hair done in the most becoming way in spite of its natural waves, which happened to be unfashionable just then, and she put on the new gown with all the care and consideration which so noble a creation deserved.

‘Madame is adorable,’ observed Alphonsine.  ’Madame is a dream.  Madame has only to lift her little finger, and kings will fall into ecstasy before her.’

‘That would be very amusing,’ said Margaret, looking at herself in the glass, and less angry with the world than she had been.  ’I have never seen a king in ecstasy.’

‘The fault is Madame’s,’ returned Alphonsine, possibly with truth.

When Margaret went into the drawing-room Logotheti was already there, and she felt a thrill of pleasure when his expression changed at sight of her.  It is not easy to affect the pleased surprise which the sudden appearance of something beautiful brings into the face of a man who is not expecting anything unusual.

‘Oh, I say!’ exclaimed the Greek.  ‘Let me look at you!’

And instead of coming forward to take her hand, he stepped back in order not to lose anything of the wonderful effect by being too near.  Margaret stood still and smiled in the peculiar way which is a woman’s equivalent for a cat’s purring.  Then, to Logotheti’s still greater delight, she slowly turned herself round, to be admired, like a statue on a pivoted pedestal, quite regardless of a secret consciousness that Margaret Donne would not have done such a thing for him, and probably not for any other man.

‘You’re really too utterly stunning!’ he cried.

In moments of enthusiasm he sometimes out-Englished Englishmen.

‘I’m glad you like it,’ Margaret said.  ’This is the first time I’ve worn it.’

’If you put it on for me, thank you!  If not, thank you for putting it on!  I’m not asking, either.  I should think you would wear it if you were alone for the mere pleasure of feeling like a goddess.’