It is a mere habit, seemingly small and unimportant; but it marks the woman and sets her apart.
Etta was standing on the hearthrug, beautifully dressed--too beautifully dressed, it is possible, to sit down.

Her maid had a moment earlier confessed that she could do no more, and Etta had come down stairs a vision of luxury, of womanly loveliness.

Nevertheless, there appeared to be something amiss.

She was so occupied with a flower at her shoulder that she did not answer at once.
"Forgiven for what ?" she asked at length, in that preoccupied tone of voice which tells wise men that only questions of dress will be considered.
De Chauxville shrugged his shoulders in his graceful Gallic way.
"Mon Dieu!" he exclaimed.

"For a crime which requires no excuse, and no explanation other than a mirror." She looked up at him innocently.
"A mirror ?" "Yours.