Page:Love's trilogy.djvu/214

 HE man who has never seen his beloved undress, does not know her. Her beauty, her fascinations are then endlessly multiplied. She seems to be created anew with every falling garment. For it is the greatest charm of the female dress: that it transforms its wearer.

——Marie is at her toilet. There, tall and slender she stands in her closely-fitting dark costume. Her mien is demure, her manner dignified. A well-bred young damosel. That is how Marie looks when in the afternoon she walks down the street among the other correct and demure young ladies.

But—— the dark gown disappears and with it the correct little lady. I find instead a merry soubrette in bare arms, bare neck, and in a short striped silk petticoat. She has quite a colour and her eyes are shining. You are like a real peasant girl, Marie, a peasant girl from the Opera!

Then ribbons are loosened and hooks are unfastened, and the corset and the petticoats slip down. The sweetest little babe-in-breeches hides her face on my shoulder. How tiny she has become in her manly garb, this big grown-up girl.

Then at last she stands in her long flowing chemise, a pale blue ribbon drawn through the embroidery round the neck. Quite a little girl, a child, who lazily stretches out her arms and begs to be put to bed.

ITH many clothes, with few clothes, with no clothes at all—Marie is always beautiful. Yet, that is not the reason why Marie is more