“I will stamp the envelopes,” said Judy obligingly. “Please pass me your glass moistener. I hate to lick things. Here is Martha; will you give her the message for Vincent?”
When the letters were disposed of, Armour took up his station on the hearth-rug, and Judy threw herself in an ecstasy of silent adoration before Vivienne. “Isn’t she an angel, Stanton?”
“Not an angel, but very much of a woman,” he replied, calmly surveying the sleeping girl.
“You’re a man,” said Judy sharply, “and when you see a pretty girl in a white dress you admire her, and you needn’t try to make me think you don’t. I was reading the other day that Napoleon thought a slight woman—he hated fat ones—dressed in white and walking under trees, was a lovely sight, and I quite agree with him. So do you. What are you frowning about? Don’t you like Napoleon? Everybody worships him nowadays.”
“A human tiger with a thirst for blood? No.”
“Well, he admired women.”
“He was a beast in his relations to them, Judy. Why does Miss Delavigne so often wear white?”
“She likes it; but she’s going to give it up.”
Armour was struck by Judy’s mysterious tone. “Why does she do that?” he asked.
“She says she can’t afford it; it’s a terrible grief to her that she has no money of her own.”