She was charmed with
her own dress and the lovely filet of diamond laurel leaves which she
had bought at the shop of the nice jeweller who was so kind. She had
smiled and nodded to her image in the mirror before leaving the hotel,
as Cinderella might have smiled; for this was her first ball. Never had
she been to a dance except those got up among a few young people after
dinner at Lady MacMillan's, years ago when she was only a schoolgirl,
and the convent dances where the pupils had learnt to waltz together,
and one of the dear sisters had played the old piano in the schoolroom.
Mary was wearing a good deal of jewellery, because she loved it, and had
never had any before. Much of her winnings she had given away. Any one
who asked, and made up a pitiful tale, could have something from her.
The latest story going about in connection with her reckless and
unreasoned generosity was of what she had done for a band of strolling
Italian musicians. She had encouraged them to bleat and bawl their
wornout songs in wornout voices, under the windows of the Hotel de
Paris, until it had been politely intimated to her that the shriekings
and tinklings were a nuisance. Mary, who loved and understood good
music, had enjoyed these disastrous efforts no more than others had, but
her heart had been full of pity for the battered little band. She could
not bear to have their feelings hurt; and when at last she had to tell
them that they must sing no more under her window, she gave the leader
and his wife a _mille_ note each to buy new instruments and costumes
for the entire company.
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