Old Rose and Silver | Page 4

little exclamation of pleasure from Rose, who
had just discovered a small white parcel at her plate. She was untying it
with eager fingers, while her colour came and went. A card fluttered
out, face upward. "To my dear Rose, with love from Aunt Francesca,"
was written in a small, quaint hand.
It was a single magnificent ruby set in a ring which exactly fitted. Rose
seldom wore rings and wondered, vaguely, how Aunt Francesca knew.
"I filled a finger of one of your gloves," said Madame, as though she
had read the thought, "and had it fitted. Simple, wasn't it?"
"Oh," breathed Rose, "it's beautiful beyond words! How shall I ever
thank you!"

"Wear it, dear. I'm so glad you're pleased!"
"It's lovely," said Isabel, but the tone was cold and she seemed to speak
with an effort. With a swift little stab at the heart, Rose saw that the girl
envied her the gift.
"It reconciles me to my years," Rose went on, quickly. "I'm willing to
be forty, if I can have a ring like this."
"Why, Cousin Rose!" cried Isabel, in astonishment. "Are you forty?"
"Yes, dear. Don't be conventional and tell me I don't look it, for I feel
it--every year."
"I should never have thought it," Isabel murmured.
Rose turned the ring slowly upon her finger and the ruby yielded the
deep crimson glow of its heart to the candlelight that softly filled the
room. "I've never had a ruby," she said, "and yet I feel, someway, as
though I'd always had this. It seems as if it belonged to me."
"That's because it suits you," nodded Madame Bernard. "I hope that
sometime our civilisation may reach such a point of advancement that
every woman will wear the clothes and jewels that suit her personality,
and make her home a proper setting for herself. See how women break
their hearts for diamonds--and not one woman in a hundred can wear
them."
"Could I wear diamonds?" asked Isabel. She was interested now and
her eyes sparkled.
Madame Bernard studied her for a moment before replying. "Yes," she
admitted, "you could wear them beautifully, but they do not belong to
Rose, or to me."
"What else could I wear?"
"Turquoises, if they were set in silver."

"I have one," Isabel announced with satisfaction. "A lovely big
turquoise matrix set in dull silver. But I have no diamonds."
"They'll come," Rose assured her, "if you want them. I think people
usually get things if they want them badly enough."
Isabel turned to Madame Bernard. "What stones do you wear?" she
inquired, politely.
"Only amethysts," she laughed. "I have a pearl necklace, but it doesn't
quite 'belong,' so I don't wear it. I won't wear anything that doesn't
'belong.'"
"How can you tell?"
"By instinct." "I can walk into a shop, look around for a moment, and
say: 'please bring me my hat.' The one I ask for is always the right one.
It is invariably becoming and suitable, and it's the same with everything
else."
"It's a wonderful experience to go shopping with Aunt Francesca," put
in Rose. "She knows what she wants and goes straight to it, without
loss of time. Utterly regardless of fashion, for its own sake, she always
contrives to be in the mode, though I believe that if hoop skirts were
suited to her, she'd have the courage of her crinoline, and wear one."
"Let us be thankful they're not," remarked Madame. "It's almost
impossible to believe it, but they must have looked well upon some
women. Every personality makes its own demand for harmony and it is
fascinating to me to observe strange people and plan for them their
houses and clothes and belongings. You can pick out, from a crowd,
the woman who would have a crayon portrait of herself upon an easel
in her parlour, and quite properly, too, since her nature demands it.
After you are experienced, you can identify the man who eats sugar and
vinegar on lettuce, and group those who keep parrots--or are capable of
it."
The seventy years sat lightly upon Madame Francesca now. Her deep

eyes shone with inward amusement, and little smiles hovered
unexpectedly about the corners of her mouth. A faint pink tint, like a
faded rose, bloomed upon her cheeks. Rose watched her with adoring
eyes, and wondered whether any man in the world, after fifteen years of
close association, could be half so delightful.
Coffee was brought into the living-room, when they went back,
preceded by Mr. Boffin, emanating the dignified satisfaction of a cat
who has supped daintily upon chicken and cream. He sat down before
the fire and methodically washed his face.
"I believe I envy Mr. Boffin his perfect digestion," remarked Madame,
as she sipped her coffee from a