Adelaide had spent with the dressmakers a good part of the letter of credit her mother slipped into her traveling bag at the parting; she herself was in a negligee which had as much style as Janet's costume and, in addition, individual taste, whereof Janet had but little; and besides, while her beauty had the same American delicateness, as of the finest, least florid Sevres or Dresden, it also had a look of durability which Janet's beauty lacked--for Janet's beauty depended upon those fragilities, coloring and contour.

Adelaide was not notably vain, had a clear sense of her defects, tended to exaggerate them, rather than her many and decisive good points.

It was not Janet's appearance that unsettled Del; she brought into the room the atmosphere Del had breathed during all those important years of girlhood, and had not yet lost her fondness for.

It depressed her at once about herself to note how this vision of the life that had been but would never be again affected her.
"You are sad, dear," said Janet, as she kissed her on both cheeks with a diffusing of perfume that gave her a sense of a bouquet of priceless exotics waving before her face.
"You are sad, dear," she repeated, with that air of tenderest sympathy which can be the safest cover for subtle malice.
Adelaide shrank.
"I'm so glad I've come when I may be able to do some good." Adelaide winced.
"How cozy these rooms are--" At "cozy" Adelaide shuddered.

No one ever used, except apologetically, that word, which is the desperate last resort of compliment.
"And what a beautiful view from the windows--so much better than ours at the pompous old Bristol, looking out on that bare square!" Adelaide laughed.