I learned later that it was the joy and pride of Antoinette's existence; for once, in the days long ago, when she was _femme de chambre_ to a luminary of the cafes concerts, it had met around her waist.

She had treasured the cast-off finery of this burned-out star--she beamed in the seventies--for all these years, and now its immortal devilry transfigured Carlotta.

She was also washed specklessly clean.

An aroma that no soap or artificial perfume could give disengaged itself from her as she moved.

Her gold-bronze hair was superbly ordered.