“A dressmaker is the only tyrant to whom I bow, the only foe before whom I lay down my arms. Go; but come back soon.”
“In ten minutes.”
“Which is it, and where is he?” she whispered eagerly as they crossed the hall.
“Mr. Trent. He is in the library.”
SCENE II
Trent was standing before a bust of Daniel Webster, speculating upon how his own profile would look in bronze.
“You would have to shave off your side-whiskers,” murmured a soft voice behind him.
He turned with a nervous start, and a suspicion of colour appeared under his grey skin. Mrs. Pendleton was standing with her hands resting lightly on the table. She smiled with saucy dignity—an art she had brought to perfection.
“I give you five years,” she said.
“With you to help me,” he cried enthusiastically. “Ah! I see you now, leaning on the arm of a foreign ambassador, going in to some great diplomatic dinner!”