She had seen
the frock only a day or two ago, and it belonged to Sabina Conti.
A very fair young girl was kneeling in the shadow, crouching over
something on the floor. Her hair was like the pale mist in the
morning, tinged with gold. She was very slight, and as she bent down,
her slender neck was dazzling white above the collar of her frock. She
was trembling a little.
"My dear Sabina, what has happened?" asked the Baroness Volterra,
leaning over her with an audible crack in the region of the waist.
At the words the girl turned up her pale face, without the least start
of surprise.
"It is dead," she said, in a very low voice.
The Baroness looked down, and saw a small bunch of yellow feathers
lying on the floor at the girl's knees; the poor little head with its
colourless beak lay quite still on the red carpet, turned upon one
side, as if it were resting.
"A canary," observed the Baroness, who had never had a pet in her
life, and had always wondered how any one could care for such stupid
things.
But the violet eyes gazed up to hers reproachfully and wonderingly.
"It is dead."
That should explain everything; surely the woman must understand. Yet
there was no response. The Baroness stood upright again, grasping her
parasol and looking down with a sort of respectful indifference.
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