CHAPTER XXVII.
MAGGIE CASEY MEETS HER OLD LOVER.
Margaret Casey called a cab, and ordering it to drive to Morley's, Trafalgar Square, betook herself to rearranging her toilet. She re-clasped a pair of heavy gold bracelets around her wrists—at any rate there was enough of gold in them to make a dashing display—and settled a splendid shawl pin to her own infinite content, then she shook out the folds of her dress, and settled down to serious meditation.
Certainly she did not appear much older than when her good looks had been a temptation to Matthew Stacy, which came very near depriving Harriet, the cook, of her pompous husband. Excitement had brought back the youthful color to her face, and a spirit of benevolent mischief kindled all the old coquettish fire in her eyes. Indeed, take her altogether, the air of refinement, which she had obtained as a lady's maid, and a certain style that she had, might well have made Mrs. Matthew Stacy look about her when Margaret came out in force, such as marked the dashing lady who descended from that cab, just lifting her dress enough to reveal glimpses of a high-heeled boot, and an ankle that Matthew Stacy recognized in an instant, for nothing so trim and dainty had ever helped make a footprint in his matrimonial path, you may be sure. He was standing on the steps at Morley's, with a white vest on and his heavy chain glittering over it like a golden rivulet.
"What! No! yes! On my soul I believe it is Miss Maggie!" cried the ex-alderman, stepping forward and reaching out his hand. "Miss Casey, I am in ecstasies of—of—in short, I am glad to see you."
Maggie bent till her pannier took the high Grecian curve as she opened her parasol, then she gave him the tip end of her gloved fingers, and said, with the sweetest lisp possible:
"How do you do, Mr. Stacy? It is ages and ages since I have had the honor of meeting you. How is Mrs. Stacy and the—and the—"
"Thank you a thousand times, Miss Casey; but—but—in short, Mrs. Stacy is the only person about whom you need inquire. There was another—forgive the outburst of a father's feelings—but a little grave in Greenwood, that long, tells the mournful story."
Here Alderman Stacy measured off a half yard or so of space with his fat hands, but found the effort too much for him, and drew forth his pocket handkerchief.
"Forgive me, but may you never know the feelings of a father who—who—"