the cards upon it for her game of solitaire. "I never hear any news,
you know. She [nodding toward me] goes out, but she never learns
anything. She is as stupid tonight as an empty bottle."

After a few passes her hands, which were slightly tremulous, regained
some of their wonted steadiness and brilliancy of movement, and the
cards dropped rapidly on the table. Mr. Horace, as he had got into
the habit of doing, watched her mechanically, rather absent-mindedly
retailing what he imagined would interest her, from his week's
observation and hearsay. And madame's little world revolved, complete
for her, in time, place, and personality.

It was an old-fashioned square room with long ceiling, and broad, low
windows heavily curtained with stiff silk brocade, faded by time into
mellowness. The tall white-painted mantel carried its obligation of
ornaments well: a gilt clock which under a glass case related some
brilliant poetical idyl, and told the hours only in an insignificant
aside, according to the delicate politeness of bygone French taste;
flanked by duplicate continuations of the same idyl in companion
candelabra, also under glass; Sèvres, or imitation Sèvres vases, and
a crowd of smaller objects to which age and rarity were slowly
contributing an artistic value. An oval mirror behind threw replicas
of them into another mirror, receiving in exchange the reflected
portrait of madame in her youth, and in the partial nudity in which
innocence was limned in madame's youth. There were besides mirrors on
the other three walls of the room, all hung with such careful intent
for the exercise of their vocation that the apartment, in spots,
extended indefinitely; the brilliant chandelier was thereby
quadrupled, and the furniture and ornaments multiplied everywhere
and most unexpectedly into twins and triplets, producing such