“She likes it, now,” whispered Arms, with a fond, proud glance at Ina.
“Women all do,” responded Carroll.
“Well, I'd stand here a week if she wanted to, bless her,” Arms whispered back, and turned with a successful grimace to acknowledge Mrs. Van Dorn's carefully worded congratulations. As she turned away she met Carroll's eyes, and a burning blush overspread her face to her pompadour crest surmounting her large, middle-aged face. She suddenly recalled, with painful acuteness, the only other occasion on which she had been in the house; but Carroll's manner was perfect, there was in his eyes no recollection whatever.
Mrs. Carroll was lovely in pale-mauve crape embroidered with violets, a relic of past splendors, remodelled for the occasion in spite of doubts on her part, and her beautiful old amethysts. Anna had urged it.
“I shall wear my cream lace, which no one here has ever seen, and I think, Amy, you had better wear that embroidered mauve crape,” she said.
“But, Anna,” said Mrs. Carroll, “doesn't it seem as if Ina's mother ought not to wear an old gown at the dear child's wedding? I would as lief, as far as I am concerned, but is it doing the right thing?”
“Why not?” asked Anna, rather tartly. Lately her temper was growing a little uncertain. Sometimes she felt as if she had been beset all her life by swarms of gnats. “No one here has ever seen the dress,” said she. “And what in the world could you have prettier, if you were to get a new one?”
“Oh, this Banbridge dressmaker is really making charming things,” said Mrs. Carroll, rather eagerly. She had a childish fondness for new clothes. “She would make me a beautiful dress, so far as that goes, Anna, dear.”
“She has all she can do with Ina's things.”
“I reckon she could squeeze in one for me, Anna. Don't you think so?”