But the "seat of state," as Jennie termed it, was the crowning
feature in this pretty retreat.
This seat of state was a raised dais, curtained with costly lace and
surmounted by a canopy of pretty workmanship. In this alcove was an
antique chair or fauteuil, and beside it a small cabinet, inlaid
with mother of pearl, while opposite stood an ebony writing desk,
strewed with fragments of exquisitely perfumed note paper.
It was evident that Marguerite had been penning down some stray
thoughts, for the pen stood in the inkstand, and traces of ink were
to be seen on her fingers.
This seat of state was just such a place as our sweet-faced
Marguerite looked to advantage, not as a queen upon her throne, but
as a type of the _spirituelles_--of the pure-minded maiden with
a slight shade of melancholy, giving interest to the soft, fair
face.
"You remind me of a madonna, my saint-like cousin," said Jennie,
placing her bright red cheek against the purely transparent and more
delicate one of her companion.
"What a contrast, Madge. Just look at your country cousin--a
blooming peony, and you, my most delicate blush rose. Ha! ha! ha!"
Cousin Jennie's laugh was one of the genuine ring--untrammelled by
affectation or repressed by pain or languor.
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