“Perhaps he thought it would do you good. He knew you had been sick.”
“But I have nothing fit to wear.”
“Am I very richly dressed?”
“No, but——”
“No objections, Martha. Get your bonnet and shawl directly.”
It was a beautiful morning,—an Indian summer day,—the air balmy and sweet as a day in early June. The seamstress yielded not unwillingly to the solicitations of Helen, and was quickly dressed for the drive.
Mr. Sharp was waiting below with a carriage.
“Good morning, Miss Grey,” he said, with his usual suavity; “I am truly glad to see that you have recovered from your illness. You are a little pale yet, but I hope we shall succeed in bringing back the roses to your cheek.”
“I am very much obliged to you for kindly remembering me, Mr. Sharp,” said Martha. “It is a charming day. I assure you I shall enjoy the drive.”
“It seems to me,” thought M’lle Fanchette, looking from her window, “that the Fords are growing extravagant. Such airs as that child puts on, merely because she sings in a theatre! and bless my soul, there’s the seamstress, Martha Grey, too! She’d better be at work. There’s the lawyer, too. It can’t be possible he is paying attentions to Helen Ford. No, she’s too young for that. Or is it Martha Grey? If it’s she, I don’t admire his taste, that’s all. She is most an old woman, and never had any beauty to boast of. (Martha was three years younger than M’lle Fanchette.) Well, well, its a queer world. That Helen may lose her situation by and by,—I’m sure, I don’t think much of her singing,—and then we sha’n’t have such gay doings.”