Nina’s refractoriness ceased, and she resignedly bent her head. In a trice the woman’s deft fingers had fastened the gown in the back, arranged the chiffon, bib-like draperies in front, and straightened out the folds of the soft, clinging skirt.
“Now your slippers, ma’am,” and she deftly clasped them on Nina’s tiny feet. “And just one look in the mirror,” and she turned a watchful eye toward the clock.
“All in white,” and Nina slowly twirled before her cheval-glass. “It is not as bad as I thought it would be.”
The woman discreetly held her peace, and began tidying the room. The girl, ordinarily only pretty, was a beauty this evening. Something had animated her, and made her cheeks burn and her eyes glow. Now she was running back. What had she forgotten—her handkerchief? and the maid hastily opened a drawer.
No, not a handkerchief, for she was waving a morsel of lace in her hand. “I want to thank you for helping me dress, Mrs. Morris,” she said, graciously.
“Beg pardon, ma’am, but you’ll be late if you don’t go down,” said the woman, who, as a well-trained English domestic, knew better than to allow this youthful American married lady to beguile her into any familiarity with her superiors.
However, she was secretly gratified by the flattering prefix tacked to her usually abbreviated name, and she slipped into the hall to see the young American lady enter the drawing-room.
She was shaking hands in the hall with a rather stout, thick-set man of middle age,—a dark, reserved-looking man who must be her husband. “A wonder he does not kiss her,” soliloquised the woman, “since they are alone.”
But he did not kiss her, and the girl hurriedly preceded him into the drawing-room, from whence Morris presently saw the company come arm in arm on their way to the dining-room.
Mrs. Fordyce was not with her husband. She was escorted by a barrister well-known to the house. The guest of honour, the honourable Arthur Gravesham, fourth son of the Earl of Greenfell, was in front with Lady Forrest. He was not much to look at, and with a yawn the woman went to her sewing. This was not a grand dinner-party. The gowns were not worth noticing, and as for that black-moustached husband of the girl she had just dressed, he was in an evening suit at least three years old in cut. No gentleman wore lapels of that shape now.