“What’s he like?”
“Oh, you haven’t seen him, Bell? There, what do you think of him? It’s not a bit flattered; is it, Laura?”
“No; don’t do him justice. No photograph could, for he’s much handsomer when he’s talking and laughing than when his face is at rest.”
“That’s so, and he’s a splendid talker; quite an artist too, Fred says. But now tell me if you think all these flowers are disposed to the very best advantage.”
The rest of the chat was about the dress, and fell utterly unheeded upon Floy’s ear.
An artist, so handsome, so good a conversationist—it could be no other than her own Espy—hers from her very babyhood. And this girl had his likeness—no doubt given by himself. What could it mean if not that they were betrothed? Well, what right had she to blame him? None, none, for she had voluntarily resigned him; and yet, and yet—oh, her heart was like to break!
“What’s the matter? are you ill?” she heard a voice asking at her side—the voice of the girl who had won him from her.
“Yes,” she answered faintly, “I—I’ve been up very late for several nights; work is so pressing just now, and I rose this morning with a terrible headache.”
“Ah, that’s too bad! I wouldn’t be a dressmaker for anything in the world. Well, I suppose you’d like to go, and there is no need for you to stay any longer. Tell Mrs. Sharp I’m delighted with the dress. Have you the bill with you?”
Floy produced it, receipted and signed; the money was paid, and she took her departure.