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Later that night, in her own chamber, while the Countess slowly divested herself of Monsieur Worth's creation, she felt strangely elated, exhilarated, exalted. As the bouffant tulle billowed in magenta waves about her feet she caught a glimpse of her happy face in the mirror over the bureau. Affecting Sanderson in Thaïs, she prayed to the glass, O, mon miroir fidele, dis-moi que je suis toujours belle,—que je serai belle éternellement;—que rien ne flétrira les roses de mes lèvres;—dis-moi que je suis belle et que je serai belle—éternellement! éternellement! Still smiling, she untied the strings of her corsets and removed them. Then, comfortable and silent, she stood in her filmy, ruffled and embroidered under-garments; silent, but not unsentient. A complicated maze of thought possessed her mind, dominated by a figure who awakened every pleasant emotion she was capable of experiencing. In the midst of this tender reverie her eye met the photograph of Tony on a donkey which, in its engraved silver frame, was a permanent adornment of her writing-table. Raising the picture in her hand, she gazed at it intently. Not to her surprise, perhaps, certainly not to her disap-