I saw a quick interchange of greetings between her and a fashionably dressed lady, then they withdrew to one side with the ornament I had brought, evidently consulting in regard to its merits. Now was my time. The book in which she had placed the letter she had been writing lay on the table right before me, not two inches from my hand. I had only to throw back the cover and my curiosity would be satisfied. Taking advantage of a moment when their backs were both turned, I pressed open the book with a careful hand, and with one eye on them and one on the sheet before me, managed to read these words:—
MY DEAREST CECILIA.
I have tried in vain to match the sample you sent me at Stewart’s,
Arnold’s and McCreery’s. If you still insist upon making up the
dress in the way you propose, I will see what Madame Dudevant can
do for us, though I cannot but advise you to alter your plans and
make the darker shade of velvet do. I went to the Cary reception
last night and met Lulu Chittenden. She has actually grown old,
but was as lively as ever. She created a great stir in Paris when
she was there; but a husband who comes home two o’clock in the
morning with bleared eyes and empty pockets, is not conducive to
the preservation of a woman’s beauty. How she manages to retain
her spirits I cannot imagine. You ask me news of cousin Holman. I
meet him occasionally and he looks well, but has grown into the
most sombre man you ever saw. In regard to certain hopes of which
you have sometimes made mention, let me assure you they are no
longer practicable. He has done what—
Here the conversation ceased in the other room, the Countess made a movement of advance and I closed the book with an inward groan over my ill-luck.
“It is very pretty,” said she with a weary air; “but as I remarked before, I am not in the buying mood. If you will take half you mention, I may consider the subject, but—”
“Pardon me, Madame,” I interrupted, being in no wise anxious to leave the placque behind me, “I have been considering the matter and I hold to my original price. Mr. Blake of Second Avenue may give it to me if you do not.”
“Mr. Blake!” She eyed me suspiciously. “Do you sell to him?”
“I sell to anyone I can,” replied I; “and as he has an artist’s eye for such things—”
Her brows knitted and she turned away. “I do not want it;” said she, “sell it to whom you please.”
I took up the placque and left the room.