There was no doubt that the captain noticed the difference. He noticed it more the following day, and more still on each succeeding one.
The next evening the Blacks called—called in state. A note from Mrs. Black, arriving by the morning's post, announced their coming. Serena noted the Black stationery, its quality and the gilded monogram, and resolved to order a supply of her own immediately. Also she bade her husband don his newest and best. She did the same, and when Captain Dan, painfully conscious of a pair of tight shoes, entered the drawing-room he found her already there.
“My!” he exclaimed, regarding her with admiration, “you do look fine, Serena. Is that the one the Boston dressmaker made?”
“Yes. I'm glad you like it.”
“Couldn't help likin' it. I can't hardly realize it's my wife that's got it on. Walk around and let me take an observation. Whew! I always said you looked ten years younger than you are. THAT rig don't spell forty-five next January, Serena.”
Mrs. Dott sniffed.
“Don't remind me of my age, Daniel,” she protested. “It isn't necessary to tell everyone how old I am.”
“All right. Nobody'd guess it, anyhow. But how funny you walk. What makes you take such little short steps?”
“I can't help it. This dress—gown, I mean—is so tight I can hardly step at all.”
“Have to shake out a reef, won't you? How in the world did you get downstairs—hop?”