Ivy struggles up to a sitting posture, her pale-blue eyes all drowned in tears over the loss of her diamonds—the golden calf of her vain heart's worship.
"If you have nothing to do but ridicule me, you had better leave the room," cries Ivy, flushing to angriest crimson. "I thought you were going to suggest something to help me."
"That would be hard to do," Mrs. Cleveland answers, with an irrepressible angry sneer.
Never in all her life has she been so angry with her silly, petted daughter.
Ivy bursts into petulant sobs again, bewailing her fate in having such a hard-hearted mother and wicked husband.
"I will go and see Mr. Noble, if you wish me," Mrs. Cleveland announces, after a moment's pause.
"Oh, pray do, mamma," her daughter cries out eagerly. "Perhaps you may get them back for me, if you manage him right. Leslie used to be quite under your thumb."
"That was long ago," Mrs. Cleveland answers dryly. "But I will do the best I can to remedy your dreadful mistake."
Still in her street dress, she has only to tie on her bonnet and depart on her mission.
Ivy, after hearing the door close behind her, lies down again, with a sigh of relief and a sensation of hope in her breast. She has great faith in the diplomatic powers of her mother.