In their own quarters that night Burns threw a plump silk couch-pillow upon the floor at Ellen's feet, and himself upon it, by her knee, as she sat in a big chair by the open window. She was still wearing the Parisian-made gown of the evening, with which she had delighted the eyes of them all. It was the one such gown she had allowed herself to bring home, treating herself to its beauty for its own sake, rather than because she could find much use for it in her quiet home.
Burns put up one hand and gently smoothed the silken fabric upon Ellen's knee.
"This is a beauty of a frock," said he. "I can't tell you what you look like in it; I've been trying to find a simile all the evening. Yet it's not the clothes that become you; you become the clothes."
"Thank you. That's a dear compliment—from a husband."
"It's sincere. You've worn such clothes a lot, in your life, before I knew you. You are used to them—at home in them. If we came to Baltimore, and I made good, you would have plenty of use for dresses like this. You would queen it, here."
She smiled, shaking her head. "Taking one's place in society in any Southern city isn't quite such a foregone conclusion, dear," she said. "Not for strangers from the North."
"With the Leavers to vouch for us, and your own personality, I don't imagine it would be a matter of tremendous difficulty. Even the country surgeon could get along without smashing many usages, under your tuition. Besides, you have the acquaintance of some of the—what do they call them?—'best people,' was the term, I believe, Jack used to me. It's a curious phrase, by the way, isn't it? Doesn't mean at all what it says!"
"Not quite—always."
He looked at her. "Would you like to come?" he asked, bluntly.
"What about you?"