"How lovely you have grown, sister!" said Sarah, earnestly. "Oh, Lucy, I don't believe you rightly value the gift of beauty—as I would do if it were mine!"
"Nonsense!" The dimples, that made her smile so bewitching, broke her blushes into rosy waves as the conscious fair one turned her face towards the mirror. "I am pleased to hear that I am passable to-night. We may have visitors. A friend of ours has expressed a great desire to see me in my home—'in the bosom of my family.' Ahem!"
She smoothed out an imaginary wrinkle in her bodice, an excuse for tarrying longer before the glass.
"He came to town with you, then?" ventured Sarah.
Lucy nodded.
"And promised to call this evening?"
"Right again, my dear!"
She was graver now, for she had conceived the happy notion of appropriating to her own use a cluster of white roses and buds she discovered in the vase on the marble slab under the mirror. If anything could have enhanced the elegance of her figure and toilet, it was the coiffure she immediately set about arranging. The flowers were a present to Sarah from Lewis Hammond; but she thought little of him or of them, as Lucy laid them first on one, then on the other side of head, to try the effect.
"And you really care for him, sister?" came forth in such a timid, anxious tone, that Lucy burst into a fit of laughter.
"You dear little modest piece of romantic simplicity! One would suppose that you were popping the question yourself, from your behavior. Care for him? Why shouldn't I? I need not say 'yes' unless I do, need I?"