“It’s a wonderful experience to go shopping with Aunt Francesca,” put in Rose.  “She knows what she wants and goes straight to it, without loss of time.  Utterly regardless of fashion, for its own sake, she always contrives to be in the mode, though I believe that if hoop skirts were suited to her, she’d have the courage of her crinoline, and wear one.”

“Let us be thankful they’re not,” remarked Madame.  “It’s almost impossible to believe it, but they must have looked well upon some women.  Every personality makes its own demand for harmony and it is fascinating to me to observe strange people and plan for them their houses and clothes and belongings.  You can pick out, from a crowd, the woman who would have a crayon portrait of herself upon an easel in her parlour, and quite properly, too, since her nature demands it.  After you are experienced, you can identify the man who eats sugar and vinegar on lettuce, and group those who keep parrots—­or are capable of it.”

The seventy years sat lightly upon Madame Francesca now.  Her deep eyes shone with inward amusement, and little smiles hovered unexpectedly about the corners of her mouth.  A faint pink tint, like a faded rose, bloomed upon her cheeks.  Rose watched her with adoring eyes, and wondered whether any man in the world, after fifteen years of close association, could be half so delightful.

Coffee was brought into the living-room, when they went back, preceded by Mr. Boffin, emanating the dignified satisfaction of a cat who has supped daintily upon chicken and cream.  He sat down before the fire and methodically washed his face.

“I believe I envy Mr. Boffin his perfect digestion,” remarked Madame, as she sipped her coffee from a Royal Canton cup.  She and Rose stood for half an hour after dinner, always.

Isabel finished her coffee and set the cup upon the table.  She slipped the Sheffield tray from under the embroidered doily and took it to the light, where she leaned over it, studying the design.  Rose thought that the light from the tray was reflected upon the girl’s face, she became at once so brilliant, so sparkling.

“Speaking of harmony—­” said Madame Bernard, in a low tone, glancing at Rose and inclining her head toward Isabel.

“Yes,” replied Isabel, returning the tray to its place; “it is a lovely one, isn’t it?”

Madame turned toward the window to hide a smile.  Rose followed, and drew the little grey lady into the circle of her strong arm.

“Dear Aunt Francesca!” she said softly.  “I thank you so much!”

The older woman patted the hand that wore the ruby, then turned to Isabel.  “Come,” she said, “and be glad you’re indoors.”

The three women stood at the wide window, looking out across the snow, lighted only by the stars and a ghostly crescent of moon.  The evergreens were huddled closely together as though they kept each other warm.  Beyond, the mountains brooded in their eternal sleep, which riving lightnings and vast, reverberating thunders were powerless to change.