“Yes, yes!—now I remember: of course, she could not be here now. An awful bright girl. I saw her once: pretty as a pictur! took a fancy to the turn of her head. My! how she does carry off a shawl! That girl is what I call superb!”
“She is good!” said Mrs. Laurence, with hard emphasis.
“Yes, good as gold, I haven’t no doubt,” chimed in Mrs. Carter. “That is why I have called. ‘That girl is a born lady,’ says I to Carter, when we were making out a list of invitations for my great party, ‘and I am bound to have her come.’ So here is the invitation! Brought it myself, because brother Ross said a call was necessary, and I want to do everything comme il fou!”
Here Mrs. Carter took a squarely-folded envelope from her pocket, on which was a flaming monogram in red and gold, which she held out to Mrs. Laurence, who took it gingerly, as if she feared the fiery letters would burn her.
“If this young lady ever goes out, I have another for her,” said the visitor, beaming with satisfaction.
“I never do,” said Ruth, with a faint quiver of pain in her voice.
“Spine?” questioned her visitor.
Ruth bent her head a little from the pillow, and a look of sadness came into her eyes.
“Don’t look down-hearted about it, my dear; you’ll soon get about again. I feel sure that I’ve got a receipt for spine complaint somewhere, and I’ll send it to you.”
Ruth smiled very mournfully, but thanked her.