She lay, with her dark, queenly head on the soft cushion of crimson velvet in an attitude that would have charmed a painter.

But the duchess was not wasting the light of her dark eyes over a book.

She had closed them, as a flower closes its leaves in the heat of the sun.

As she lay there, beautiful, languid, graceful, the picture she formed was a marvelous rich study of color.

So thought the duke, who, unheard by her, had entered the room.
Everything had prospered with his grace.