"'But why?' I stammered.

"'Women like you,' he said, 'belong to the stately, the aristocratic

type. You can be a grande dame or a duchess--and you are making of

yourself--what? A soubrette, with your tango skirt and your strapped

slippers, and your hideous head-dress--take it off.' "'But I can't take it off,' I said, almost tearfully; 'my hair

underneath is--awful.' "'It doesn't make any difference about your hair underneath--it can't

be worse than it is,' he roared. 'I want to see your coloring--take it

off.' "And I took it off. My hair was perfectly flat, and as I caught a

glimpse of myself in the mirror, I wanted to laugh, to shriek. But

Colin Quale was as solemn as an owl. 'Ah,' he said, 'I knew you had a

lot of it!' "He caught up the scarf which he had borrowed and flung it over my

shoulders. He gave a flick of his fingers against my forehead and

pulled down a few hairs and parted them. He whisked a little table in

front of me, and thrust the bunch of roses into my arms.

"'Now look at yourself,' he commanded.

"I looked and looked again. I had never dreamed that I could be like

that. The scarf and the table hid every bit of that Paris gown, and

showed just a bit of white throat. My plain parted hair and the

roses--I looked," and now Delilah was blushing faintly, "I looked as I

had always wanted to look--like the lovely ladies in the old English

portraits.

"'Do you like it?' Colin asked.

"He knew that I liked it from my eyes, and for the first time since I

had met him, he laughed.

"'All my life,' he said, 'I have been looking for just such a woman as

you. A woman to make over--to develop. We must be friends, Miss

Jeliffe. You must let me know where I can see you again.' "Well, I didn't dance any more that night. I wrapped the scarf about

my head, and went back to my hotel. Colin Quale went with me. All the

way he talked about the sacredness of beauty. He opened my eyes. I

began to see that loveliness should be suggested rather than

emphasized. And I have told you this because I want you to understand

about Colin. He isn't in love with me. I rather fancy that back home

in Amesbury or Newburyport, or whatever town it is that he hails from,

there's somebody whom he'll find to marry. To him I am a statue to be

molded. I am clay, marble, a tube of paint, a canvas ready for his

brush. It was the same way with this old house. He wanted a setting

for me, and he couldn't rest until he had found it. He has not only

changed my atmosphere, he has changed my manner--I was going to say my

morals--he brings to me portraits of Romney ladies and Gainsborough

ladies--until I seem positively to swim in a sea of stateliness. And

what I said just now about manners and morals is true. A woman lives

up to the clothes she wears. If you think this change is on the

surface, it isn't. I couldn't talk slang in a Gainsborough hat, and be

in keeping, so I don't talk slang; and a perfect lady in a moleskin

mantle must have morals to match; so in my little mantle I cannot tell

a lie."




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