“But where’s Flora?—where’s my watch-guard?” anxiously asked Blanche.
“She was here just now,” said Meta, looking round. “What a genius she is, Ethel! She worked wonders all yesterday, and let the Miss Hoxtons think it was all their own doing, and she was out before six this morning, putting finishing touches.”
“Is this your stall?” said Ethel.
“Yes, but it will not bear a comparison with hers. It has a lady’s-maid look by the side of hers. In fact, Bellairs and my aunt’s maid did it chiefly, for papa was rather ailing yesterday, and I could not be out much.”
“How is he now?”
“Better; he will walk round by-and-by. I hope it will not be too much for him.”
“Oh, what beautiful things!” cried Mary, in ecstasy, at what she was forced to express by the vague substantive, for her imagination had never stretched to the marvels she beheld.
“Ay, we have been lazy, you see, and so Aunt Leonora brought down all these smart concerns. It is rather like Howell and James’s, isn’t it?”
In fact, Lady Leonora’s marquee was filled with costly knick-knacks, which, as Meta justly said, had not half the grace and appropriate air that reigned where Flora had arranged, and where Margaret had worked, with the peculiar freshness and finish that distinguished everything to which she set her hand.
Miss Cleveland’s counter was not ill set-out, but it wanted the air of ease and simplicity, which was even more noticeable than the perfect taste of Flora’s wares. If there had been nothing facetious, the effect would have been better, but there was nothing to regret, and the whole was very bright and gay.