Gila was all in white, from the tip of her pearly shoulders down to the tip of her pearl-beaded slippers—­white and demure.  Her skin looked even more pearly than when she wore the brilliant red-velvet gown.  It had a pure, dazzling whiteness, different from most skins.  It perplexed him.  It did not look like flesh, but more like some ethereal substance meant for angels.  He drew a breath of satisfaction that there was not even a flush upon it to-night.  No painting there at least!  He was not master of the rare arts that skins are subject to in these days.  He knew artificial whiteness only when it was glaring and floury.  This pearly paleness was exquisite, delicious; and in contrast the great dark eyes, lifted pansy-like for an instant and then down-drooped beneath those wonderful, long curling lashes, were almost startling in their beauty.  The hair was simply arranged with a plain narrow band of black velvet around the white temples, and the soft loops of cloudy darkness drawn out on her cheeks in her own fantastic way.  There was an attempt at demureness in the gown; soft folds of pure transparent nothing seemed to shelter what they could not hide, and more such folds drooped over the lovely arms to the elbows.  Surely, surely, this was loveliness undefiled.  The words of Peer Gynt came floating back disconnectedly, more as a puzzled question in his mind than as they stand in the story: 

“Is your psalm-book in your ’kerchief? 
Do you glance adown your apron? 
Do you hold your mother’s skirt-fold? 
Speak!”

But he only looked at her admiringly, and talked on about the college games, making himself agreeable to every one, and winning more and more the lifted pansy-eyes.

When dinner was over they drifted informally into a large white-and-gold reception-room, with inhospitable chairs and settees whose satin slipperiness offered no inducements to sit down.  There were gold-lacquered tables and a curious concert-grand piano, also gold inlaid with mother-of-pearl cupids and flowers.  Everything was most elaborate.  Gila, in her soft transparencies, looked like a wraith amid it all.  The young man chose to think she was too rare and fine for a place so ornate.

Presently the fat cooky arms of the mother were enfolded in a gorgeous blue-plush evening cloak beloaded with handsome black fur; and with many bows and kindly words the little husband toddled off beside her, reminding Courtland of a big cinnamon bear and a little black-and-tan dog he had once seen together in a show.

Gila stood bewitchingly childish in the great gold room, and shyly asked if he would like to go to the library, where it was cozier.  The red light glowed across the hall, and he turned from it with a shudder of remembrance.  The glow seemed to beat upon his nerves like something striking his eyeballs.

“I’d like to hear you play, if you will,” he answered, wondering in his heart if, after all, a dolled-up instrument like that was really meant to be played upon.