Again grief overcame her.
"Well, what said he?"
"He said—oh, oh—he said, 'Julia don't paw me.'"
Mistress Kitty Bellairs, the reigning toast of Bath, the prettiest woman, in the estimation of her admirers, in all England, and the wittiest, laughed low to herself, then rose from her chair, took her tall friend by the shoulders, and walked her up to the mirror.
"Look at yourself," said she, "and look at me."
Lady Standish winced. The contrast between her own dishevelled hair, her marbled swollen countenance, her untidy morning gown, and the blooming perfection of the apparition beside her, was more than she could contemplate. Kitty Bellairs—as complete in every detail of beauty as a carnation—smiled upon herself sweetly.
"My dear," said she, "I have had thirty-seven declared adorers these three years, and never one tired of me yet. Poor Bellairs," she said with a light sigh, "he had two wives before me, and he was sixty-nine when he died, but he told me with his last breath that 'twas I gave him all the joy he ever knew."
Lady Standish ceased weeping as suddenly as if her tears had been mechanically turned off. She regarded the widow earnestly.
"Now, child," said Mistress Bellairs, with all the authority of her twenty-six years, "here we have been four weeks acquainted, and you have more than once done me the honour of saying that you considered me your friend."
"'Tis so," said Lady Standish.