She had that wonderful gift of fascination which makes even a plain woman irresistible.

Allied to beauty so wondrous as hers, it was fatal.
It is morning, and Lady Amelie, fresh and radiant as a June rose, is in her boudoir, an exquisite little room, hung with pink silk and white lace; the windows were draped with pink silk, and the light that came through was subdued and rosy, the fairest of all lights in which to see a fair woman.
A gem of a room, from which a painter would have made a room glowing in luxurious color.

The air was heavy with the perfume of white hyacinths and daphnes--the jardinieres were filled with the sweetest of flowers; Lady Amelie loved them so well; she was never so pleased as when in the midst of them.

There was a marble Flora, whose hands were filled with purple heliotropes--in fact, every beauty that money, taste or luxury could suggest, was there.

Pale pink was a color that Lady Amelie loved--her chairs and couches were covered with it.