CHAPTER XXII.
In the beautiful drawing-room at Whitestone Hall sat Pluma Hurlhurst, running her white, jeweled fingers lightly over the keyboard of a grand piano, but the music evidently failed to charm her. She arose listlessly and walked toward the window, which opened out upon the wide, cool, rose-embowered porch.
The sunshine glimmered on her amber satin robe, and the white frost-work of lace at her throat, and upon the dark, rich beauty of her southern face.
“Miss Pluma,” called Mrs. Corliss, the housekeeper, entering the room, “there is a person down-stairs who wishes to see you. I have told her repeatedly it is an utter impossibility––you would not see her; but she declares she will not go away until she does see you.”
Pluma turns from the window with cold disdain.
“You should know better than to deliver a message of this kind to me. How dare the impertinent, presuming beggar insist upon seeing me! Order the servants to put her out of the house at once.”
“She is not young,” said the venerable housekeeper, “and I thought, if you only would––”
“Your opinion was not called for, Mrs. Corliss,” returned the heiress, pointing toward the door haughtily.
“I beg your pardon,” the housekeeper made answer, “but the poor creature begged so hard to see you I did feel a little sorry for her.”
“This does not interest me, Mrs. Corliss,” said Pluma, turning toward the window, indicating the conversation was at an end––“not in the least.”