entirely in mourning. "It might be made quite ornamental. The walls hung with crêpe, the furniture of black wood, upholstered with white plush, crosses of silver and of ebony, standing and suspended chandeliers of silver, a profusion of such flowers as are used to dress a catafalque, a large table in the centre, covered with a black cloth. And the boudoir lit with wax tapers only."
She then showed me an album bound in black leather, with a silver cross that stood out in relief on the cover.
With an embarrassed smile, she explained its contents to me.
"Here I have placed all Witold's loves, in chronological order," she said, and the very sound of his name made her blush hotly. "The number looks very great indeed, but this is because I have in many cases several portraits of the same person."
I looked it over for a time, enthralled and captivated by these faces, each of a different type, some laughing, some grave, some pathetic, others comical or exotic or common-place, these full of fire, those ethereal-looking; many attired in the strangest raiment, or posing in voluptuous attitudes, and stretching
