A sigh was his only response, and he arose from the table and went to the window to hide his feelings. For every hour, every moment, he thought of that beautiful but poor girl—every instant when he recalled her estimable pride and independence, the modesty which had so long concealed talents which left every female of his acquaintance far behind, he loved her more and more.
“He has got it, and got it hard,” said Flotie to Anna, looking at Edward as he stood there in gloom, with his back toward them.
“Got what, Flotie?”
“The disease called love, Anna. And he must be cured in some way, or farewell to the opera, ball, and theaters for us. What fools men are to fall in love anyway. For my part, I don’t want one ever to grow sickish over me.”
“What does this mean?” cried Anna. “The girl who drew these sketches is named Hattie Butler, yet the monogram on the portfolio is ‘G. E. L.’”
“Oh, most likely she is working under an assumed name. Perhaps she has fallen in fortune, and did not want to be known by any former acquaintance. I don’t understand these things, and don’t want to. There is no romance about a shop-girl, in my mind.”
Edward W—— heard this and sighed.
CHAPTER XIX.
A TASK ACCOMPLISHED.
The next morning Mr. W—— sent one of his house-servants to the residence of Mr. Legare with the portfolio of drawings, but without any message, for he knew the old gentleman would come to the bindery to hear how he had fared in his mission, and he could better tell him by word of mouth than on paper.
But the two sketches—the caricature of himself and foreman and the mountain scene—he took out, and carried them with him when he went down to the bindery. He went through the shop, as usual, after his arrival, and saw all the hands at their various benches and tables, and noticed with a sigh that Hattie Butler, her hair neatly bound up, sat in her plain, but becoming, dress at her table, apparently unconscious of everything but the work before her.