A similarity of judgment on questions of clothes and shops is no
doubt a bond between strange women everywhere; but it was the daughter's
belt-buckle before which Mrs. Valentin bowed down and humbled herself in
silence. The like of that comes only by inheritance or travel. Antique,
pale gold--Cellini might have designed it. There was probably not another
buckle like that one in existence. An imitation? No more than its wearer, a
girl as white as a white camellia, with gray eyes and thin black eyebrows,
and thick black lashes that darkened the eyes all round. There was nothing
noticeable in her dress except its freshness and a certain finish in lesser
details, understood by the sophisticated. "Swell" was too common a word
for her supreme and dainty elegance. Her resemblance to the ordinary
full-fleshed type of Pacific coast belle was that of a portrait by
Romney--possibly engraved by Cole--to a photograph of some _reina de la
fiesta_. This was Mrs. Valentin's exaggerated way of putting it to herself.
Such a passionate conservative as she was sure to be prejudiced.
The mother had a more pronounced individuality, as mothers are apt to
have, and looked quite fit for the ordinary uses of life.
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