The Lady of Sigmundskron had neither parasol, nor lap-dog, nor fan. Her
plain grey dress, made almost as simply as a nun's, contrasted oddly
with the profusion of expensive bad taste displayed in her hostess's
attire, as her serious white face and quiet noble eyes were strangely
unlike Frau von Greifenstein's simpering, nervous countenance. The
latter lady would certainly have been taken at first sight for the
younger of the two, though she was in reality considerably older, but a
closer examination showed an infinite number of minute lines, about the
eyes, about the mouth, and even on her cheeks, not to mention that
tell-tale wrinkle, the sign manual of advancing years, which begins
just in front of the lobe of the ear and cuts its way downwards and
backwards, round the angle of the jaw. There was a disquieting air of
improbability, too, about some of the colouring in her face, though it
was far from apparent that she was painted. Her hair, at all events,
was her own and was not dyed. And yet, though she possessed an
abundance of it, such as many a girl might have envied, it remained
utterly uninteresting and commonplace, for its faded straw-like colour
was not attractive to the eye, and it grew so awkwardly and so straight
as to put its possessor to much trouble in the arrangement of the
youthful ringlets she thought so becoming to her style. These, however,
she never relinquished under any circumstances whatever. Nevertheless,
at a certain distance and in a favourable light, the whole effect was
youngish, though one could not call it youthful, the more so as Frau
von Sigmundskron who sat beside her was, at little over forty, usually
taken for an old lady.
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