“Is—is she in?” he questioned.
“Oh, yes; she’s in.”
“Will you please give her my card, then?”
He walked into the parlor.
The parlor was darkened—blinds closed to exclude the heat—and intensely still. The ticking of the clock on the mantel-piece was the only interruption of the silence, save when at intervals the distant roar of a train on the elevated railway became audible for a moment.
Mrs. Lehmyl entered, and gave him her hand, and looked up smiling at him, all without a word. She wore a white gown, and an amber necklace and bracelet; and my informant says that she had “a halo of sweetness and purity all around her.” For a trice Arthur was tongue-tied.
At length, “I have brought you a few flowers,” he began.
She took the flowers, and buried her nose in them, and thanked their donor, and pinned one of the roses at her breast.
“I hope you are quite well again,” he pursued.
“Oh, yes,” she said, “quite well.”