THE WINGS OF THE DOVE
effect as that of her wonderful entrance, under her aunt's eyes—he had never forgotten it—the day of their younger friend's failure at Lancaster Gate. She was, in her accepted effacement—it was actually her acceptance that made the beauty and repaired the damage—under her aunt's eyes now; but whose eyes were not effectually preoccupied? It struck him, none the less, certainly, that almost the first thing she said to him showed an exquisite attempt to appear if not unconvinced, at least self-possessed.
"Don't you think her good enough now?"
She looked at Milly from where they stood, noted her in renewed talk, over her further wishes, with her little orchestra, who had approached her with demonstrations of deference enlivened by native freedoms that were quite in the note of old Venetian comedy. The girl's idea of music had been happy—a real solvent of shyness, yet not drastic; thanks to the intermissions, discretions, a general habit of mercy to gathered barbarians, that reflected the good manners of its interpreters, representatives though these might be but of the order in which taste was natural and melody rank. It was easy, at all events, to answer Kate. "Ah, my dear, you know how good I think her!"
"But she's too nice," Kate returned with appreciation. "Everything suits her so—especially her pearls. They go so with her old lace. I'll trouble you really to look at them." Densher, though aware he had seen them before, had perhaps not
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