Palma arose and the dressmaker helped to relieve her of her cashmere dress and induct her into the velvet.
But slight alteration was necessary—the front breadth shortened, the sleeves shortened, the side seams of the waist taken in—that was all.
The young dressmaker laid off her hat and her wraps, and took from her little hand-bag needle, sewing silk, scissors and thimble, and sat down to work.
Then Palma, having nothing else to occupy herself with while the dressmaker sat there, began idly to rummage among the silver tissue paper in the bottom of the big bandbox, and there she found another box—a smaller one—which she took out to examine. It had her name on it. She opened the box and found a fichu and pocket handkerchief of duchess lace, a pair of the finest white kid gloves, a lovely fan, and a little turban of velvet and satin to match her dress.
The dressmaker soon finished her task, folded the dress, returned it to the box, and took her leave.
Then Palma started up, like the delighted child that she was, opened the box again, took out the elegant dress, spread it all over the sofa to display its beauties to the best advantage, and called in Mrs. Pole to admire it; and when that good woman had risen to as much enthusiasm as she was capable of—for a suit—and returned to her own dominions, Palma still left it there, that Stuart might be regaled with the vision when he should come in.
When Cleve did come in and was shown the present and the note that came with it he looked rather grave; he did not like presents, would much rather that his pretty little wife had continued to wear her shabby red cashmere, rather than be indebted to any one for a sapphire velvet; but it was too late to prevent her acceptance of it now, so he quickly cleared his brow and admired the dress to her heart’s content.
On that same evening Ran was, as usual, spending the hour with Mrs. Walling and Judy. There was no other company. Ran had a secret source of distress, and it was this—his humble, faithful friends down at Markiss’ Hotel, in the lower part of the city. They certainly did not belong to the Walling “set.” Conventionally, they were a long, long way below that set; yet Ran wanted them to be present both at his wedding and at the wedding breakfast, and that wedding was to be celebrated at one of the most “fashionable” churches in the city; and that wedding breakfast was to be given at Mrs. Walling’s. How could Ran ask that very fine lady to invite his humble friends? And, on the other hand, how could he slight those faithful friends? Mike, his brother-in-law expectant, must come, of course; that was to be taken for granted, and then Longman, who had rescued him on the night when he was shot, and who had actually saved his life—Longman ought certainly to come. And, finally, poor old Andrew Quin ought not to be left—the only one—“out in the cold.”
While Ran was turning these matters over in his mind he was not noticing what Mrs. Walling was doing. That good lady sat at a small writing-desk busy with note paper and envelopes. Presently she said:
“Randolph, dear, give me the address of those good friends of yours.”