That night Charlotte was the last to go to her room—that is, the last except her father. He was still smoking in the little room on the left of the hall. They had been playing whist in there; then they had had some sherry and crackers and olives. Major Arms had sent out a case of sherry before the wedding, and it was not all gone. Now Carroll was smoking a last cigar before retiring, and the others except Charlotte had gone. She lingered after she had kissed her father good-night.
“Papa,” said she, tentatively. She looked very slim and young in her little white muslin frock, with her pretty hair braided in her neck.
“Well, sweetheart, what is it?” asked Carroll, with a tender look of admiration.
Charlotte hesitated. Then she spoke with such desire not to offend that her voice rang harsh. “Papa,” said she, “do you think—”
“Think what, honey?”
“Do you think you can pay the dress-maker's bill?”
“Pretty soon, dear,” said Carroll, his face changing.
“To-morrow?”
“I am afraid not to-morrow, Charlotte.”
“She worked very hard over those dresses, and she bought the things, and it is quite a while. I think she ought to be paid, papa.”