“I wonder what knops are,” she said to herself drowsily. “I must remember to ask Hattie.”
There was a stir. Both doors of her room were open; the little unobtrusive one into the dressing-room for air,–the window there stood wide open through the night,–the large one into the sitting-room so as to leave a free road to Miss Madison’s room beyond. Through this now slipped a slender form in a soft, fur-bordered wrapper, and with front locks done up in curling-kids.
“You in bed?”
“Yes; I’m just reading my chapter.”
“Livvy gone?”
Livvy, or Miss Deliverance Jones, was the maid they had brought from America, a New York negress of the most faintly colored complexion, with hair mysteriously blond. Her head was egg-shaped, her nose slightly flat, her lip voluptuous, her brown-black eye sad as a homesick monkey’s; but she could wind a chocolate veil about her face 68and stylish hat, and walk forth happy in the fancy that she passed for white. She was an accomplished dressmaker and hair-dresser; she moreover had spent some time in the service of a beauty-doctor. The ladies had secured her just before sailing, and liked her, but did not talk freely when she was present.
“Yes, she’s gone.”
“I’m not a bit sleepy, are you? I’m too excited. Let’s talk.”
She climbed on to her friend’s bed, gathered her knees to her chin, and hugged them, with the effect of hugging to herself a great happiness.
Mrs. Hawthorne closed her Bible and put it aside. The single candle by which she had been reading showed the shining mirthfulness of the eyes with which the two regarded each other.