She would be in white, with one of those long ermine
things that women call stoles; an ermine muff (the big, "granny" kind
that swallows girlish arms up to the dimples in their elbows) and a hat
which they would have bought together in Paris.
They would have bought jewels, too, in the same street where they found
the hat; the Rue de la Paix, which she had told him she longed to see.
And she would be wearing some of the jewels with the white dress--just a
few, not many, of course. A string of pearls (she loved pearls) a
swallow brooch (he had heard her say she admired those swallow brooches,
and he never forgot anything she said); with perhaps a sapphire-studded
buckle on her white suede belt. Yes, that would be all, except the
rings, which would lie hidden under her gloves, on the dear little hands
whose nails were like enamelled rose leaves.
When she moved, walking beside him on the terrace, there would be a
mysterious silky whisper and rustle, something like that you hear in the
woods, in the spring, when the leaves are crisp with their pale green
youth, and you shut your eyes, listening to the breeze telling them the
secrets of life.
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