Shélobe had become pleasantly plump through sempiternal broodings upon her unusual repasts, weaving beautiful tapestries of shadow. Upon each of her four legs, she wore a white satin stocking, delicately enmeshed with mithril, leaving uncovered her feet, which one had taken for the most exquisite marbles of Argonault were it not for the sandals of orc-hair enlaced with sigaldry. A kind of corset let her neck and the top of her bosom be seen; it was fastened under the breast by three silmarils. Everything between the bottom of the corset and the top of the stockings was veiled under one of those belts with long cobwebby fringes that are the ambition of our elegant Annuminasiennes. A beautiful white Mordor rose set off her hair, which was as black as the hand of Sauron. Her face was of a perfect arachnid beauty, the crystals of her eyes mirroring those of the candelabra that hung from the ceiling, and adding to their many colors the light of her indwelling heart. And upon all this charming ensemble, the flower of youth spread its éclat and its perfume; Shélobe, the youngest child of Ungolianne to brighten the civilised world, had lived 451 years, and seemed not a day above 33. So she appeared when the Count entered the apartment.
Shélobe extended her third hand to the Count with a smile, saying, "Vhy do you azzk pairmeesion zat you entairr? Are you not ze maisterr andt I ze sclave?"
"Shélobe," replied Monte Fato, smiling in turn, "You know we are in Arnor, and that you are therefore free – far freer, indeed, than these hobbites and Dunédains will be when I finish my affairs here. In fact, when you reign here as queen, every breakfast you shall be fed a glut of pâtisseries, and be swollen so that the salons will no longer contain you."
