"I hope such instances of neglect are not very common," said Gertrude. "I am afraid, if they are, Emily and I shall be on the crying list, for Dr. Jeremy will not fee the waiters beforehand; he says it is a mean thing, and he will not command attention in that way."
"Oh, you need have no such fear," said Miss Gryseworth. "Persons accustomed to hotel life can always command attention, especially in so well-regulated an establishment as this. Grandmamma shares the doctor's views with regard to bargaining for it beforehand, but no one ever sees her neglected here."
Another light tap at the door, and this time it was Netta Gryseworth who entered, exclaiming, "I hear Ellen's voice, so I must come in. I am provoked," added she, as she kissed Emily's hand, and shook Gertrude's with a freedom which seemed to spring from girlish hoydenism and high-bred independence of manner, "to think that while I have been watching about the drawing-room doors for this last half-hour, so as to see you the first minute you came in, Ellen has been sitting here on a trunk, as sociable as all the world, enjoying your society, and telling you every bit of the news."
"Not every bit, Netta," said Ellen; "I have left several choice little morsels for you."
"Have you told Miss Flint about the Foxes and the Coxes that were here yesterday?—Has she, Miss Flint?"
"Not a word about them," said Gertrude.
"Nor about the fright we had on board the steamboat?"
"No."
"Nor about Mr. Phillips being here?"
"Oh, yes, she told us that."