vases of American Beauty roses gave a sense of decorative grace to the place. Through an open doorway Campaspe caught a glimpse of three innovation trunks standing open in the bedroom. Chairs, bed, and floor were littered with a profusion of hats and gowns from the Parisian couturieres, while a maid struggled futilely to put an end to this confusion.
My trunks have just arrived; I had such difficulties with the douane, the Countess explained, after kissing Campaspe on both cheeks. You will pardon the appearance of my rooms . . .
She chattered on in a kind of passionate endeavour to keep from thinking, Campaspe decided, as she made a rapid examination of the figure before her. At first, the false teeth, the hollow cheeks, artfully tinted with red, the ravaged throat, concealed beneath a broad band of black velvet, were a trifle repulsive, but in a little while, this unfortunate initial impression wore away. After all, Campaspe summed it up, she is seventy-seven; may I look as well when I attain that age! She was truly amazing, this woman. Her figure was not bad: her dress made it even presentable. Her white hair gave her an air of distinction, and Campaspe again mentally admired the contradictions in her face, her full sensual lips and staring eyes, mingled with an expression that stamped her at heart as utterly conventional. Possibly Iowa had presented her with this paradoxical respectability.
