But behind her was her sister in ravishing black satin, scaled as a fish with glistening crimsoned-silver sequins, her round, smooth arms bare to the shoulders, her corsage cut as low in the front and back as her daring, in relation to her sense of the proprieties, permitted.  She was naturally of exquisite figure, erect, full-breasted, with somewhat more than gently swelling hips, which, nevertheless, melted into lovely, harmonious lines; and this low-cut corsage, receding back and front into a deep V, above a short, gracefully draped overskirt of black tulle and silver tissue, set her off to perfection.  Her full, smooth, roundly modeled neck was enhanced in its cream-pink whiteness by an inch-wide necklet of black jet cut in many faceted black squares.  Her complexion, naturally high in tone because of the pink of health, was enhanced by the tiniest speck of black court-plaster laid upon her cheekbone; and her hair, heightened in its reddish-gold by her dress, was fluffed loosely and adroitly about her eyes.  The main mass of this treasure was done in two loose braids caught up in a black spangled net at the back of her neck; and her eyebrows had been emphasized by a pencil into something almost as significant as her hair.  She was, for the occasion, a little too emphatic, perhaps, and yet more because of her burning vitality than of her costume.  Art for her should have meant subduing her physical and spiritual significance.  Life for her meant emphasizing them.

“Lillian!” Anna nudged her sister-in-law.  She was grieved to think that Aileen was wearing black and looked so much better than either of them.

“I see,” Lillian replied, in a subdued tone.

“So you’re back again.”  She was addressing Aileen.  “It’s chilly out, isn’t it?”

“I don’t mind.  Don’t the rooms look lovely?”

She was gazing at the softly lighted chambers and the throng before her.

Norah began to babble to Anna.  “You know, I just thought I never would get this old thing on.”  She was speaking of her dress.  “Aileen wouldn’t help me—­the mean thing!”

Aileen had swept on to Cowperwood and his mother, who was near him.  She had removed from her arm the black satin ribbon which held her train and kicked the skirts loose and free.  Her eyes gleamed almost pleadingly for all her hauteur, like a spirited collie’s, and her even teeth showed beautifully.

Cowperwood understood her precisely, as he did any fine, spirited animal.

“I can’t tell you how nice you look,” he whispered to her, familiarly, as though there was an old understanding between them.  “You’re like fire and song.”

He did not know why he said this.  He was not especially poetic.  He had not formulated the phrase beforehand.  Since his first glimpse of her in the hall, his feelings and ideas had been leaping and plunging like spirited horses.  This girl made him set his teeth and narrow his eyes.  Involuntarily he squared his jaw, looking more defiant, forceful, efficient, as she drew near.