19 : The End of the Thread“My dear, I must be getting old.”
Belle patted her muslin headdress into position as she spoke. She was standing in front of the small oval mirror with its frame of white Dresden flowers which hung over the gilt console table between the two windows. She remained surveying herself, while the roar of Max’s acceleration died away in the street below.
In actual fact she looked considerably younger than of late. The clash had brought out some of her old fire, and there was a trace of the “Belle Darling” of the Louvre in her quick smile as she turned to nod at Campion, who had just entered.
After the greeting she returned to the mirror.
“I like these bonnets,” she remarked. “They make me look so clean, don’t you think? Old women often look so mothy, put away for th
