"You told her! Where? when?"
"In the store—this afternoon. She came in 'promiscuous' for black Lyon's velvet, wasn't it, Lady Catheron? You didn't get it, by the way. Permit me to inform you, in my professional capacity, that we have a very chaste and elegant assortment of the article always in stock. Trix, where's your manners? Here's Nellie hovering aloof in the background, waiting to be introduced. Allow me to be master of the ceremonies—Lady Catheron, Miss Nellie Seton."
Both young ladies bowed—both looked each other full in the face—genuine admiration in Miss Seton's—keen, jealous scrutiny in Lady Catheron's. She saw a girl of two or three and twenty, under-sized and rather plump, with a face which in point of beauty would not for one instant compare with her own or Trixy's either. But it was such a thoroughly good face. And the blue, beaming eyes, the soft-cut smiling mouth, gentle, and strong, and sweet, were surely made to win all hearts at sight. Not a beauty—something infinitely better, and as a rival, something infinitely more dangerous.
"Lady Catheron's name is familiar to me as a household word," Miss
Seton said, with a frank little laugh, that subdued Edith at once.
"Trix wakes with your name on her lips, I believe, and goes to sleep
murmuring it at night. Lady Catheron doesn't know how madly jealous
I have been of her before now."
Edith turns once more to Trix—faithful, friendly, loyal Trix—and stretches forth both hands, with a swift, graceful impulse, tears standing, large and bright, in her eyes.
"My own dear Trix!" is what she says.
"And now I'll run away," Miss Seton exclaims brightly; "auntie will expect me, and I know Trix has ten thousand things to tell and to hear. No, Trixy, not a word. Charley, what are you doing with your hat? put it down instantly—I don't want you. I would very much rather go home alone."
"Yes, it's so likely I'll let you. There's no earthly reason why you shouldn't stay; but if, with your usual obstinacy and strong-mindedness, you insist upon going—"
"I do insist upon going, and without an escort. You know you are rather a nuisance—in the way than otherwise—oh, I mean it I get home twice as fast when I go by myself."
He looks at her—Edith turns sick—sick, as she sees the look. He says something in too low a tone for the rest to hear. Miss Seton laughs, but her color rises and she objects no more. Edith sees it all. A gray-kidded hand is extended to her.