"I doubt that," answered Netta; "I am not sure but you are a coadjutor with her. However, I will state my grievance. Do you not see how entirely she engrosses the attention of an important personage? Are you not aware that Peter has ceased to have eyes for anyone else? For my own part, I can get nothing to eat or drink until Miss Flint is served, and I'm determined to ask papa to change our seats at the table. It isn't that I care about my food; but I feel insulted—my pride is essentially wounded. A few days ago I was a great favourite with Peter, and all my pet dishes were sure to be placed in front of me; but now the tune is changed, and this very evening I saw him pass Gertrude the blackberries, which the creature knows I delight in, while he pushed a dish of blues towards me in a contemptuous manner, which seemed to imply, 'Blueberries are good enough for you, miss!'"
"I have noticed that the waiters are very attentive to us," said Emily; "do you suppose Gertrude has been secretly bribing them?"
"She says not," replied Netta. "Didn't you tell me so yesterday, Gertrude, when I was drawing a similar comparison between their devotion to you and to our party? Didn't you tell me that neither the doctor nor any of you ever gave Peter anything?"
"Certainly," answered Gertrude; "his attentions are all voluntary; but I attribute them entirely to Emily's influence and his desire to serve her."
"It is no such thing," said Netta; "it's sorcery, I'm sure of it; you've been practising the black art, Gertrude, and I'll warn Peter this very day."
They now went to the corner of the drawing-room where the old ladies of Gryseworth and Jeremy were sitting upon a sofa, engaged in earnest conversation, while Ellen, who had just returned from a drive with her father, stood talking with him and a Mr. Petrancourt, who had just arrived from New York.
The ladies on the sofa made room for Emily, and Netta and Gertrude seated themselves. Madame Gryseworth was annoyed by a group of children on the other side of the room, who by their shouts interrupted her remarks, and prevented her understanding those of her neighbour. Gertrude's attention was attracted by them to such a degree that she did not hear half of the sallies of wit and nonsense which Netta continued to pour forth.
"Do go and play with those children, Gertrude," said Netta at last; "I know you're longing to go."
"I'm longing to stop their play!" said Gertrude.
Some half-dozen gaily-dressed children had collected around a strange little new-comer, whom they were subjecting to every species of persecution. Her clothes, though of rich materials, were mostly untidily arranged, and soiled by travelling. Her little black silk frock (for the child was clad in mourning) was quite outgrown, being much shorter than some of her other garments, and her whole appearance denoted great neglect. Gertrude saw the little girl standing in their midst, looking wildly about her, as if to escape; but this the children prevented, and continued to ply her with questions, each of which called forth their derisive shouts, which made her cry. Whether the scene reminded Gertrude of some of her own experiences, or merely touched the chord of sympathy for the injured, she could not keep her eyes from the little party; and just as Netta was upon one of her favourite topics—namely, Mr. Phillips and his unaccountable conduct—she sprang from her seat, exclaiming, "They shan't torment that child so!" and hastily crossed the room.