Mothers are sometimes so mystifying!
The time for the good night kiss came and went with no revealing word from either side. The kiss was unusually tender, given and received. Left alone at last, on her little, moon-whitened bed, Missy reflected on her great fondness for her mother. No; she wouldn't exchange her dear mother, not even for the most aristocratic lady in England.
Then, as the moon worked its magic on her fluttering lids, the flowered wall-paper, the bird's-eye maple furniture, all dissolved in air, and in their place magically stood, faded yet rich, lounges and chairs of velvet; priceless statuettes; a few bits of bric-a-brac worth their weight in gold; several portraits of beauties well-known in the London and Paris worlds, frail as they were fair, false as they were piquante; tobacco-stands and meerschaum pipes and cigarette-holders; a couple of dogs snoozing peacefully upon the hearth-rug; a writing-table near the blazing grate and, seated before it—
Yes! It was he! Though the room was Archibald Chesney's “den,” the seated figure was none other than Ed Brown!...
A shadow falls across the paper on which he is writing—he glances up—beholds an airy fairy vision regarding him with a saucy smile—a slight graceful creature clothed in shell-pink with daintiest lace frillings at the throat and wrists, and with a wealth of nut-brown locks brought low on her white brow, letting only the great grey eyes shine out.
“What are you writing, sir?” she demands, sending him a bewitching glance.
“Only a response to your gracious invitation, Lady Melissa,” he replies, springing up to kiss her tapering fingers... The moon seals the closed eyelids down with a kiss.
The day of days arrived.
Missy got up while the rest of the household was still sleeping. For once she did not wait for Poppy's kiss to awaken her. The empty bed surprised and disconcerted Poppy—that is, Fifine—upon her appearance. But much, these days, was happening to surprise and disconcert Poppy—that is, Fifine.
Fifine finally located her mistress down in the back parlour, occupied with shears and a heap of old magazines. Missy was clipping sketches from certain advertisements, which she might trace upon cardboard squares and decorate with water-colour. These were to be the “place-cards”—an artistic commission Missy had put off from day to day till, now, at the last minute, she was constrained to rise early, with a rushed and remorseful feeling. A situation familiar to many artists.