“My little girl has not thanked you yet for the slippers, Mr. Metzerott. I suppose they came from you, as that is your department at ‘Prices.’”
“Yes,” said Louis quietly, “it is my department.”
“And they do you credit. Pinkie will find nothing prettier in Paris, if I decide to take her. Why, they would be just the thing, little girl, for gala days at the convent, with a white dress and veil.”
“Do they wear veils? I should like to see you in one, Miss Rose,” said Louis, still with that blank quietness which had so suddenly descended upon him.
“Papa,” said Pinkie suddenly, “Freddy has something to show me, some of his own work. And we don’t want you, papa, or Virgie; you are too learned in technique and chiar-oscuro and that, and Virgie is too satirical. Go upstairs, you two; I’ll see you later.”
“Don’t wait for me, Mr. Randolph; I have something to say to Mr. Metzerott,” said Virginia boldly. Louis was only a boy, she said to herself; besides, one need hardly stand on ceremony with that sort of people.
Thus cast off by his women-kind, Mr. Randolph had no alternative but to obey, since interference was not his cue. “Tell Pinkie not to be long, she is keeping her cousin from his ride,” said the great Wall Street operator, as he left her; but Virgie was not thinking of Pinkie at all.
“I want to say, Mr. Metzerott,” she said, “that I am so much obliged to you for speaking as you did, about—carpenters, you know.”
“Why, I did not say anything, did I?” replied Louis, rather absently, following Pinkie with his eyes as she walked away by the side of Freddy’s chair, which his father wheeled into the office.
“Oh! I know you’d rather go with them,” said Virgie with the candid directness which was a part of her character; “but I’ve got something to say, and I mean to say it. Mr. Metzerott—or, I say, do you mind if I call you Louis?”