OLD COPIES OF THE "COURIER."
"Two waltzes," said Trix, counting on her fingers; "that's two; one cracovienne, that's three; les lanciers, that's four; one galop, that's five; and one polka quadrille, that's six. Six dances, round and square, with Sir Victor Catheron. Edith," cried Miss Stuart, triumphantly, "do you hear that?"
"Yes, Trixy, I hear," said Edith, dreamily.
"You don't look as if you did, or if you do hear, you don't heed. Six dances—two more I am certain, than he danced with any other girl in the house. That looks promising, now doesn't it? Edith, the long and short of the matter is this: I shall break my heart and die if he doesn't make me Lady Catheron."
A faint, half-absent smile—no other reply from Miss Darrell. In the handsome reception-room of the Stuart mansion, the two girls sat. It was half-past three in the afternoon, of the day succeeding the ball. In the luxuriant depths of a puffy arm-chair, reclined Edith Darrell, as much at home, as though puffy chairs and luxuriant reclining, had ever been her normal state. The crimson satin cushions, contrasted brilliantly with her dark eyes, hair and complexion. Her black silk dress was new, and fitted well, and she had lit it up with a knot of scarlet tangled in some white lace at the throat. Altogether she made a very effective picture.
In another puffy rocking-chair near, sat Trixy, her chestnut hair crepe to her eyebrows and falling in a crinkling shower down to her waist. Her voluminous draperies balloon over the carpet for the space of a couple of yards on either side, and she looked from top to toe the "New Yorkiest of New York girls." They made a very nice contrast if you had an eye for effect—blonde and brunette, dash and dignity, style and classic simplicity, gorgeous furniture, and outside the gray, fast-drifting April afternoon, the raw, easterly April wind.
"Of course," pursued Miss Stuart, going on with the web of rose-colored knitting in her lap, "being the daughter of the house, and considering the occasion, and everything, I suppose a few more dances than usual were expected of him. Still, I don't believe he would have asked me six times if—Edith! how often did he dance with you?"
"How often did—I beg your pardon, Beatrix; I didn't catch what you said."
"I see you didn't. You're half-asleep, arn't you? A penny for your thoughts, Dithy."
"They're not worth a farthing," Edith answered, contemptuously. "I chanced just then to be thinking of Mrs. Featherbrain. What was it you asked—something about Sir Victor?"