“Yes, but haven’t you observed, Miss Spicer, that the most charming tints in silk are not always the most telling, when you get them on! There is the dress you wore the other night. Now, to my mind, that dress was a failure.”
“That dress a failure? Why, Ellen Post, it cost ten dollars a yard.”
“Shouldn’t wonder; but still, it didn’t come up to my expectations. When the madam came out, she killed it dead.”
“Nothing, I believe, came up to any one’s expectations that night. I never spent such an evening. Every one I knew was out of sorts,” said the young lady.
“I’m sure the madam was,” answered Ellen. “Never saw her so wild and white in my life. What could have happened? You ought to know, Miss Spicer—you, as one might say, a part of the family.”
“No, I’m not, Ellen Post, and it’s likely I never shall be.”
“Why, Miss Spicer, I thought it was settled. I am sure the madam treats you as if you were her own daughter, and Mr. Ivon——”
“There, there, don’t mention him! It’s only an aggravation. One day sweet as honey-dew, the next after some one else, flirting, like a humming-bird, right before my face, and daring to tell me that another girl—one of those forward, low creatures that sell goods—has rejected him.”
Ellen Post dropped the silk which she had been holding, and all its shining folds fell in a heap on the carpet.
“Miss Spicer, you don’t mean to say that!”