As proved by developments of the next day, Dolores need not have feared that Mrs. Cabot would blame her for the interest of the uniquely attractive young osteopath. Evidently she was of too sweet a nature for that. During the after-luncheon respite, when the girl sat reading in her room to avoid a possible repetition of yesterday’s telepathic tête-à-tête, madame sought her in an exceptionally gracious mood. She was followed by her maid, who bore a long black-and-white striped box.
“Lay it on the bed, Annette.”
Having dismissed the reluctant Frenchwoman, she turned to Dolores with a manner of affectionate anticipation.
“I saw it yesterday at Yungman’s revue,” she announced. “As it stayed on my imagination over night, I sent Annette this morning to buy it.”
“It?” Dolores tried to feel on faith something of Mrs. Cabot’s pleasurable excitement.
“It’s from Angèle, the colors copied from an overcast sunset, mostly gray, with just a suggestion through the mists of lavender and rose. And it’s built of the clingingest stuff. I hope you’ll like it.”
“I am sure I shall. All your things are beautiful.”
Dolores hovered over the tissue wrappings with the true girl’s interest.
“Oh!” she exclaimed in a voice soft as the fabric.
“Oh!”—again, as Catherine lifted an evening gown on its satin-padded hanger and suspended it from the electrolier. The most stupid cynic could not have doubted the governess’ worshipful gaze, and madame, while in many respects a cynic, was far from stupid.