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Updated: May 19, 2025
Verlat, a celebrated dressmaker, was typical of the Viennese spirit the gown Lavinia wore resembled, in all its implications, an orchid. There was a whisper here of satin, a pale note of green, a promise of chiffon.
Lavinia sat with her hands loose in her lap. She was wondering whether or not, should she make a vigorous protest, they would send her back to the convent. The Verlat gown was carefully hung in her closet. Last night she had been idiotic. The Marchese Sanviano appeared hurriedly and alone; his tie was crooked and his expression very much disturbed. His wife looked up, startled.
Anna returned, followed by her maid, who bore carefully over her arm a shimmering mass of glowing pink. "Now!" Anna Mantegazza cried. "Your hair is very pretty, very original but hardly for a dress by Verlat. Sara!" The maid moved quietly forward and directed an appraising gaze at Lavinia. She was a flat-hipped Englishwoman, with a cleft chin and enigmatic greenish eyes.
She wondered whether her father would buy her a dress by Verlat. "Honestly," Orsi murmured, "more beautiful than your " She stopped him with an impatient gesture, wondering what Mochales was saying to Gheta.
Her pure serenity revolted against the currents of life sweeping down upon her, threatening to inundate her. She unhooked the Verlat gown with trembling fingers and once more in simple white dropped into a deep chair, where she cried with short painful inspirations, her face pressed against her arm. Her emotion subsided, changed to a formless dread, and again to a black sense of helplessness.
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