There is in Florence a plaque by one of the
della Robbia; a long throated girl's head leans
from it, serenely looking down upon the world ;
a delicate head, with a clear brow, a pure cheek, a
mouth of sad enchanting loveliness ; Camelia's head
was like it ; saint-like in contour, but with an added
air, an air of merry irresponsibility. The outward
comers of her eyes smiled into a long upward curve
of shadow, her brows above them made a wing-like
line, wings hovering extended, and a little raised.
The upward tilt pervaded the comers of her mouth,

i6



THE CONFOUNDING OF CAMELIA

a sad mouth, yet even in repose it seemed just about
to smile, and its smile sliding to a laugh. The very
moulding of her cheek and chin showed a tender
gaiety. As for coloring it might have been the
coloring of a pensive Madonna, so white was her
skin, so palely gold her smooth thick hair. She
was slender too, with the long narrow hands and
feet of an Artemis, and on seeing her one thought
of a maiden-goddess, of a St. Cecilia, and, without
surprise over the incongruity, of an intimately
modem young taster of life, whose look of pagan
joyousness took neither herself nor other people
seriously, said **que voulez-vous," to all blame,
and gently mocked puritanical earnestness.
Mrs. Fox-Darriel was plunged into the depths of
an easy-chair, a type without hints and whispers to
baffle and fascinate. She was thoroughly conven-
tional and not in the least perplexing. Her elab-
orate head, a masterpiece of wave and coil and
curl, rested against the high-chair back, its lustre
a trifle suspicious where the light caught too gold
a bronze on the sharp ripples.
