“Miss Spicer! Tell her to come up.”
There was a rustle of silk flounces, a clatter of high heels, as Miss Spicer came up the stairs. There was also a strong scent of the last fashionable perfume left floating in the hall, as she entered her friend’s boudoir, closing the door behind her.
Fifteen minutes after this Ellen Post glided down the back stairway, with an evil look on her face, and a satchel in her hand.
Then all was still, and only a faint murmur of voices disturbed the sumptuous quiet of that lady’s boudoir. Voices, did I say? Only the quick, rattling sound of Miss Spicer’s tongue was heard; the firm, even tones of Mrs. Lambert never penetrated beyond the room in which she sat. Once, when the door was open, and Miss Spicer stood upon the ermine mat, biting her lips, and beating her flounces with the end of her cane parasol, the clear ringing tones of that voice penetrated into the hall.
“No, Miss Spicer, I will take leave of you now; for this is the last time that you will ever be admitted into a house of which I am mistress.”
Miss Spicer turned upon the mat like a little fury.
“Well, madam! I suppose it is just possible to live without coming into your house! Heaven knows, it’s been dull enough since that girl cut you out with Ross, the painter! This is the gratitude one gets for paying off your debts. I’m thankful for one thing; though! She’ll marry him, and leave you to break your mean old heart; while Ivon will hate you forever and ever for breaking up his little matrimonial game. Good-by, Mrs. Lambert. If you can stand it, I ought to, having nothing very dreadful to look back upon, and plenty of youth, which you will never have again!”
As Miss Spicer was flying down stairs in her hot wrath, Ivon Lambert came into the hall, and stood aside for her to pass. She stopped suddenly, and held out her hand with a hysterical laugh.
“There; let’s shake hands, and say good-by. Your lovely mother has just turned me out of doors; but see if I don’t pay her off! If that fellow, Ross, don’t marry your old lady love, and I for one have no idea that he ever thought of it, I’ll marry him myself, and ride over the old woman rough-shod. With his genius and my money we could do it—for people are beginning to talk about her awfully, I can tell you; something about the conservatory, and fainting dead at the artist’s feet. Ellen Post knows all about it. She’s just been sent away, and won’t the story ring. Of course I shan’t help it forward. Oh, no! she hasn’t insulted me!”
Before Ivon could even comprehend this rude speech, the young lady had turned the latch and door-knob with a force that tore her gloves, and hurried down the pavement.