CHAPTER XXXIX.
MR. AND MRS. SMITH.
The two people were Mr. and Mrs. Smith, she in the glory and amplitude of her moire antique, with the yellow feather in her hair—an addition Kate Gorman had insisted on with spirit, declaring that no mistress of hers was to be put down by them Laurence girls while she was to the fore.
So with her feather all afloat, and her dress sweeping out gorgeously, Mrs. Smith came up and dropped a voluminous curtsy before her old friend, who stooped down, like a queen, and, with both hands, lifted the grocer’s wife out of the depths of her obeisance. Then Carter and Smith shook hands, and said, “How do you do?” with solemn gravity, while their wives dropped into conversation about the children at home; and Miss Spicer hovered near, taking venomous mental notes.
“Oh, my! this is fun alive!” said the young lady. “I only wish your mother had been here to see that curtsy. Wasn’t it sublime? I’ve seen girls making cheeses before this, but a grown woman, and stout at that, is excruciating! Do take me away, Ivon; or I shall do something dreadful!”
Young Lambert gladly led the girl back to his mother, who still occupied her place on the sofa, and had increased her circle of admirers. Miss Spicer took a vacant place by her friend, who was talking brilliantly.
“Oh, Mrs. Lambert, do stop one minute, and hear what I’ve got to tell you,” whispered the young lady, impatient to impart her news.
Mrs. Lambert turned from the gay throng around her and listened.
“He is going to marry her!”
“He? Who?”
The color left Mrs. Lambert’s lips as she asked the question, and a cold shiver ran over her.