“Nothing more to-day.”
Mrs. Mason smiled triumphantly as she watched the blood deepen in Elsie’s cheeks as she left the room. “The girl is as proud as Lucifer; but it is not a usual pride, I must confess.”
At the close of the week Elsie found that her end of the domestic machinery was running quietly and smoothly. She had already made friends with the other servants, who, while recognizing the air of self-respecting womanhood that would neither give nor permit low jests or rude actions, could not fail to be drawn by the simplicity of her manner and her frank, straightforward way of looking at things. Insensibly the loud-voiced talk and rude horse-play formerly in vogue among them began to disappear. James’ ostentatious display of knowledge gradually weakened before Elsie’s clear eyes and plain questions; William left his stable-talk at the door, together with his coat and boots, and came to his meals in patent-leather pumps, velveteen roundabout, and hair saturated with patchouli. The house-maids had less gossip of the upper regions to retail, and Jenie’s smutty frock was invariably replaced by a clean one at meal-time.
“Ze leetle witch,” exclaimed Lizzette to Margaret. “She haf got zere necks under her heel so quick! And ze funny part ees zey know eet not at all.”
“I doubt if Elsie does,” replied Margaret. “For after all it is only the power of judiciously exhibited self-respect.”
CHAPTER XI.
There was a subdued bustle in the Mason mansion which betokened an unusual event. Covers were removed from unused furniture, long-closed rooms were newly aired and decorated, windows were opened to the sunlight, and hot-houses were ransacked for potted plants and cut flowers. In the store-rooms of Elsie’s department tables and shelves were piled high with viands of every sort, the combined result of Lizzette’s and Elsie’s skill; for Elsie had been afraid on so momentous an occasion to trust entirely to herself.
“And all this fuss is over one small man,” whispered Elsie to Lizzette as they stood admiring the aggregation of eatables. “Has he been starving among the Hottentots all these years, or is he a great gourmand?”
“Nezair,” laughed Lizzette. “Il est ze apple of ze eye of Helen Mason. Zay are alone togezzer in ze world, and ze one sweet sing in Helen Mason ees her love for Herbeart. Mais, he ees très cher efen to me. So vot you call warm-hearted, wiz ze bonhomie zat make ze world bright. He travel in Europe zese several year, and like Helen il à l’argent in heaps I know not.”
“What has he made of himself?”