Nobody (putting her husband out of the question, of course) now sees in her, what everybody once saw⁠—I mean the structure of the female skeleton, in the upper regions of the collarbones and the shoulder-blades. Clad in quiet black or grey gowns, made high round the throat⁠—dresses that she would have laughed at, or screamed at, as the whim of the moment inclined her, in her maiden days⁠—she sits speechless in corners; her dry white hands (so dry that the pores of her skin look chalky) incessantly engaged, either in monotonous embroidery work or in rolling up endless cigarettes for the Count’s own particular smoking. On the few occasions when her cold blue eyes are off her work, they are generally turned on her husband, with the look of mute submissive inquiry which we are all familiar with in the eyes of a faithful dog. The only approach to an inward thaw which I have yet detected under her outer covering of icy constraint, has betrayed itself, once or twice, in the form of a suppressed tigerish jealousy of any woman in the house (the maids included) to whom the Count speaks, or on whom he looks with anything approaching to special interest or attention.