She was waiting!—not another touch to be given to her attire. Her gown, of shimmering blue silk, clung to her figure with every movement, and fell to the floor in suggestively revealing folds. Her dark hair was arranged in simple fashion—the simplicity of exquisite taste—making the fair face below it, seem fairer even than it was. She was going to win this man.
She heard them enter the lower hall, and pass into the drawing-room. She glided out to the stairway, and stood, peering down over the balustrade. She heard Miss Carrington’s greeting and theirs—heard Macloud’s chuckle, and Croyden’s quiet laugh. Then she heard Macloud say:
“Mr. Croyden is anxious to meet your guest—at least, we took her to be a guest you were driving with this morning.”
“My guest is equally anxious to meet Mr. Croyden,” Miss Carrington replied.
“Why does she tarry, then?” laughed Croyden.
“Did you ever know a woman to be ready?”
“You were.”
“I am the hostess!” she explained. 265
“Mr. Croyden imagined there was something familiar about her,” Macloud remarked.
“Do you mean you recognized her?” Miss Carrington asked.