Lady Wolfer looked at her curiously, with an expression which Nell did not understand at that early period of their acquaintance.
"Does it matter?" she said. "We women have been dolls too long——"
"But there are short-haired dolls," said Nell, with her native shrewdness.
Lady Wolfer did not seem offended.
"That was rather smart," she remarked. "Take care, or we shall have you on a public platform before long, my dear."
"Oh, I hope not! I mean—I beg your pardon."
"Not at all," said Lady Wolfer, with no abatement of her good humor. "There's no danger—fortunately, for you. No, my dear; I can see that yours is a very different métier. Your rôle is the 'angel of the house'—to be loved and loving." She turned to the desk as she spoke, and did not see the flush that rose for an instant to poor Nell's pale face. "You will always be the woman in chains—the slave of man. I hope the chain will be of roses, my dear."
She stifled a sigh as she finished the pretty little sentence; and Nell, watching her, saw the expression of unrest and melancholy on her ladyship's face again. Nell wondered what was the matter, and was still wondering when there came a knock at the door.
"Come in!" said Lady Wolfer; and a gentleman entered. He was young and good-looking, his tall figure clad in the regulation frock coat, in the buttonhole of which was a delicate orchid. The hat which he carried in his lavender-gloved hands shone as if it had just left the manufacturer's hands, and his small feet were clad in the brightest of patent-leather boots.
"I beg pardon!" he began, in the slow drawl which fashion had of late ordained. "Didn't know you weren't alone. Sorry!"