Her mother's pearls hung in ropes from neck to waist, and the one spot of colour about her was the single American Beauty rose she carried.

There is a patriotic florist in Paris who grows these long-stemmed empresses of the rose-garden, and Mr.Beresford sends some to me every week.

Francesca had taken the flower without permission, and I must say she was as worthy of it as it of her.
She curtsied deeply, with no exaggerated ceremony, but with a sort of innocent and childlike gravity, while the satin of her gown spread itself like a great blossom over the floor.

Her head was bowed until the dark lashes swept her crimson cheeks; then she rose again from the heart of the shimmering lily, with the one splendid rose glowing against all her dazzling whiteness, and floated slowly across the dreaded space to the door of exit as if she were preceded by invisible heralds and followed by invisible train-bearers.
"Who is she ?" we heard whispered here and there.

"Look at the rose!" "Look at the pearls! Is she a princess or only an American ?" I glanced at the Reverend Ronald.