Miss Stirling fastened the cross-shaped watch to the left side of her gown, pressed into place a patch near her eye and another near her dimple, and, with a last look in the glass, arose.
Her gown was of blue lustring, long-waisted and laced over a stomacher, exquisitely guimped and pinked. A sacque, of the same material, hung from her shoulders to the ground and formed a train, and on her head was a large chip hat, with feathers and pinks.
She crossed to the window and drew aside the curtain. The coach was waiting, and beside it were Mr. Paca and Mr. Worthington and Captain Herford. She went back to the glass, took another survey, dabbed a bit of powder, here and there, on her face, smiled at her reflection, and turned away. It was race day, in Annapolis.
The Governor was ascending the stairs, as she came out of her room; when he reached the landing, he stopped and looked at her. She made him a bit of a curtsy.
"Will I do?" she asked.
"Yes, you will do," he said; "even I can see that. I am sorry for the macaronies down in front."
"They do not deserve any sympathy."
"I suppose not," he said; "at least, they do not get much from you. You may take the coach; I shall ride to the course—and do not wait for me. They are sufficient to escort you."
She gave him a bright smile, and went down and out to the coach.