Fanning herself languidly, Della moved slowly away towards the breakfast-room. A servant stood waiting to open the door for her, with an obsequious bow, and she stood in the presence of her parents.
"Dear dort!" cried her mother, (making as she thought an affectionate abbreviation of daughter,) "what is the matter that you look so flushed and excited this morning? Your cheeks are really vulgarly red; dear me, I hope they'll pale off a little before evening."
"Good morning, Della," said Mr. Delancey, formally, who even at home sat in his usual position, bolt upright in his chair; "good morning; I'm glad to see that you have acquired a graceful manner of entering a breakfast-room."
"If I keep on improving, papa, you will give me the promised winter in Havana I suppose?"
"I suppose so, my child. I wish to make you very happy."
There was a softness in Mr. Delancey's cold eyes, as he spoke, which one would no sooner have expected to see there, than they would thought to have seen a rock melt. Only his daughter could bring it there.
"Miss Della," said the governess, "your attitude is a trifle too stiff—a little more of the bend, if you please."
Miss Della tipped a little.
"Dort, darling," said Mrs. Delancey, "pray don't display such an appetite—it is really frightful to see you eat so much. A young lady like you should be very delicate at table."