floral oil painting

flower.' And I took a rose from a vase and fastened it in her sash.
She sighed a sigh of ineffable satisfaction, as if her cup of
happiness were now full. I turned my face away to conceal a smile I
could not suppress: there was something ludicrous as well as painful
in the little Parisienne's earnest and innate devotion to matters of
dress.
A soft sound of rising now became audible; the curtain was swept
back from the arch; through it appeared the dining-room, with its
lit lustre pouring down light on the silver and glass of a magnificent
dessert-service covering a long table; a band of ladies stood in the
opening; they entered, and the curtain fell behind them.
There were but eight; yet, somehow, as they flocked in, they gave
the impression of a much larger number. Some of them were very tall;
many were dressed in white; and all had a sweeping amplitude of
array that seemed to magnify their persons as a mist magnifies the
moon. I rose and curtseyed to them: one or two bent their heads in
return, the others only stared at me.
They dispersed about the room, reminding me, by the lightness and
buoyancy of their movements, of a flock of white plumy birds. Some
of them threw themselves in half-reclining positions on the sofas