On the evening of her arrival at home, her father gazed at her with pride, and expressed his satisfaction at her evident improvement in the warmest terms; which opinion Alice took calmly, as praise to which she was justly entitled.
The next day, however, when he took advantage of her return to invite a few acquaintances to dine, he was pained and humiliated by her pertness and affectation. There was such an effort to show off before the young gentlemen of the party the knowledge she had so recently acquired,—such art, in even the tossing of her head, or the languishing expression of her eyes, that, fearing she would disgust his friends as she had disgusted him, he suddenly gave Aunt Clarissa a hint to move from the dining hall to the parlors.
But when a young man invited her to sing, he was more displeased than ever; she had been, she said, so much occupied in her studies; she had practised so little; her music was not yet unpacked; and her voice was affected by a cold.
Her manner of saying all this made it too evident that she wished to be urged; but her father, who, though talking with one of the guests, was attentive to all that was passing, abruptly interfered, saying,—
"Well, my daughter, it is of very little consequence whether you sing now; Madame—, the celebrated singer, is in town, and we shall, no doubt, all have a chance to hear some really fine music."
On returning to his house the next day for dinner, he heard Alice talking over the stairs to a servant.
"What did she say?"
"She left her card, miss, and was sorry you were not in."
The peculiar smile on the servant's countenance arrested Mr. Saunders's attention.
"What is it?" he asked his daughter, in a grave tone.