Читать книгу A Son of Ishmael. A Novel онлайн

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“They are all wearing wraps of some sort, and I have nothing pretty,” said Nancy. “You know that I came to you without a trousseau, Adrian.”

“What is a trousseau?” asked Rowton.

“Oh! all the pretty things that brides bring to the men they love—they are called by the collective name ‘trousseau.’”

“Then this right loyal lover will give his bride the pretty things himself, and—stay a moment, a recollection comes to me. I believe I stuffed something into my portmanteau, something which I thought would suit you. Wait a moment.”

Rowton went into the adjoining bedroom. He returned in a few moments with a thin parcel wrapped in tissue paper.

“There,” he said, “you can wrap that round you. I don’t believe a lady down there will have anything more radiant to sun herself in.”

Nancy took the pins out of the paper and the next moment a gossamer shawl woven with what appeared like every thread of the rainbow—as light as a feather, as fine as a cobweb—was extended on her arm.

“This is wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I never saw anything so like a bit of the sun itself.”