She was determined to encourage no
ostentatious pride; so she made her acceptance as indifferent as she felt
good manners would allow.
Mrs. Bates crossed over the hall and paused in a wide doorway. "This,"
she indicated, in a tone slightly suggestive of the cicerone, "is
the--well, the Grand Salon; at least, that's what the newspapers have
decided to call it. Do you care anything for Louis Quinze?"
Jane found herself on the threshold of a long and glittering apartment;
it was full of the ornate and complicated embellishments of the
eighteenth century--an exhibition of decorative whip-cracking. Grilles,
panels, mirror-frames all glimmered in green and gold, and a row of
lustres, each multitudinously candled, hung from the lofty ceiling.
Jane felt herself on firmer ground here than in the library, whose
general air of distinction, with no definite detail by way of guidepost,
had rather baffled her.
"Hem!" she observed, critically, as her eyes roamed over the spacious
spendor of the place, "quite an epitome of the whole rococo period; done,
too, with a French grace and a German thoroughness. Almost a real
_jardin d'hiver_, in fact. Very handsome indeed."
Mrs. Bates pricked up her ears; she had not expected quite such a
response as this. "You are posted on these things, then?"
"Well," said Jane, "I belong to an art class. We study the different
periods in architecture and decoration."
"Do you? I belong to just such a class myself--and to three or four
others.
Pages:
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73