velvet, exactly copied from a picture of Boucher, and with all the grace of dead Versailles in its folds. She put a rococo necklace on, with a portrait of Maria Theresa in it, and went listlessly to the dinner; she was not thinking about her appearance that night, or she would have said that she was too pale to wear all that white.
"Goodness me, Hilda, how ill you do look," said Madame Mila, meeting her on the stairs, and who was going also.
"No, thanks, I won't drive with you; two women can't go in a carriage without one being chiffonnée. That's an exquisite toilette; that white brocade is delicious—stamped with the lilies of France,—very pretty; only you're too pale for it to-night, and it's a pity to wear it only for the Archduchess. She never knows what anybody's got on their backs. Is anything the matter, dear?"
"Nothing in the world."
"Then you must have got a headache? You certainly do look very ill. I do so hope we shall get away in time for the Veglione. It's the very
