Then Priscilla wheeled about lightly and displayed her gown to Farwell's astonished eyes.
"Cast-offs," she explained; "the Honourable Mrs. Jones from the States left them with Mrs. McAlpin for the poor. Just imagine the 'poor' glinting around in this gay silk gown all frayed at the hem and in holes under the arms! The hat and veil, too, go with the smart frock; likewise the scarf of rainbow colours. But, oh! Mr. Farwell, how do I look as a real lady in my damaged outfit?"
Farwell stared without speaking. He had grown so used to the change in the girl since the time when he had prevailed upon Glenn to loosen the rein upon her, that the even stream of their intercourse had been unruffled. He had passed from teacher to friendly guide, from guide to good comrade; but here he was suddenly confronting her—man to woman!
All his misfortune and limitations had but erected a shield of age about him beneath which smouldered dangerously, but unconsciously, all the forbidden and denied passions and sentiments of a male creature of early middle life.
In thinking afterward of the shock Priscilla gave him, Farwell was always glad to remember that his first thought was for her, her danger, her need.
"I declare!" he exclaimed. "I did not know you, Priscilla Glenn."
His tone had a new ring in it, a vibration of defence—the astonished male on guard against the attack of a subtle force whose power he could not estimate.
"And no wonder. I did not know myself when I first saw myself. Do you know, Mr. Farwell, I never thought about my—my face, much, but it is really a—very nice face, isn't it? As faces go, I mean?"
"Yes," Farwell returned, looking at her critically and speaking slowly. "Yes, you are very—beautiful. I had not thought of it before, either."
"Drop me down, now, in the States, Mr. Farwell, and I fancy that with my looks and my dancing I might—well, go! What do you think?"