There was an adequate display of fictitious grief among her social
equals. Madame Steynlin, in particular, carried it off--to outward
appearances--with remarkable success. She looked really quite upset, and
her hat, as usual, attracted the attention of all the ladies. Madame
Steynlin's hats were proverbial. She was always appearing in new ones
of the most costly varieties. And never, by any chance, did they accord
with her uncommon and rather ripe style of beauty. Madame Steynlin was
too romantic to dress well. She trimmed her heart, and not her
garments. A tidy little income, however, enabled her to eke out lack of
taste by recklessness of expenditure. This particular hat, it was
observed, must have cost a fortune. And yet it was a perfect fright; it
made her look fifteen years older, to the delight of all the other
women.
What cared Madame Steynlin about hats? Her distressful appearance was
not feigned; she was truly upset, though not about the death of the
Commissioner's lady. With an effort whose violence nobody but herself
could appreciate she had managed to extricate herself from the
lion--like embraces of Peter the Great--to what purpose? To perform an
odious social duty; to waste a fair morning in simulating grief for the
death of a woman whom she loathed like poison.
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