"Oh, what lovely roses!" exclaimed Nora, bending her graceful head, to inhale their delicate fragrance. "It was so good of you to get them for me!"
"Well, I didn't get them, to tell the truth! I meant to get some, though; but this morning I got a little box from Mr. Chillingworth, with a note, begging that you and I would oblige him by wearing the contents. See, here are mine," pointing to a cluster of tea-roses on her own blue satin. "So you see I kept them for a surprise, sort of coup de grâce; now, I think that was quite a clever idea."
"But ought I really to wear them?" asked Nora, doubtfully. The "roses" had come to her face, now, as well as her dress, giving just the one touch which her sister-in-law had thought she lacked.
"Why, of course you can," replied Mrs. Blanchard, quickly. "Just as well as I can wear mine! It was so nice of the dear man to think of us both!"
"It was very kind, and there's nothing I like so well as roses," said Nora, again breathing in their fragrance; "and these made me think so much of summer and Rockland."
But it is doubtful whether it would have given her so much pleasure to wear them, in her present mood, had she known just what they cost!
CHAPTER XII.
TABLE-TALK.
When the little party reached Mrs. Pomeroy's sumptuous drawing-room—a blaze of light and color—most of the guests had already arrived. Mr. Pomeroy, a large, important looking man, who seemed to be on excellent terms with himself and with the world in general, greeted them with a rather pompous cordiality, and then retired to the background to continue his conversation with an old gentleman of somewhat grim and shaggy aspect, whose old-fashioned frock-coat contrasted somewhat oddly with his host's expansive shirt-front and irreproachable dress-suit. Mrs. Pomeroy was a rather small, dark-eyed woman, with a good deal of character and energy in her face, and a dress of sober richness, almost suggestive of Quakerism in its hue. Miss Pomeroy, rather tall, and dark, and good-looking, though with a slight hardness and discontent about the curves of her face, was engaged in an animated conversation with Mr. Chillingworth. Kitty Farrell—looking exquisite and radiant in some diaphanous, pink, silky texture, was appropriated, of course, by young Pomeroy. Her father, with a thin careworn face, quick and restless in his movements, was talking with Mr. Pomeroy and the old gentleman, while Mrs. Farrell, fair, languid, and most tastefully attired, reclined on a sofa beside Mrs. Pomeroy. There were some other people, including a banker and his wife—a Mr. and Mrs. Cheever, accompanied by a Miss Harley, an English lady with an English complexion and roundness of figure, who was paying them a visit, and on whose account, mainly, the party was given. Nora was speedily introduced to a young man who arrived almost simultaneously with themselves—fresh and good-looking, with dark-brown hair and full moustache, which parted in a frequent smile over very white teeth. He was introduced as "Mr. Archer," and Nora was trying to make up her mind whether she liked his face or not, when dinner was announced, and her new acquaintance offered his arm.