They laughed at her; but in their hearts they admired her independence, and they said among themselves that there was not a rich girl who came to the store half as pretty and dainty as merry little Floy, in her cheap blue dress that set off to such advantage her flower-like face, and tiny dimpled hands with their exquisite taper fingers.
Floy would not own even to herself that she really occupied a very subordinate position in the world, for there was some proud blood in her veins that made her hold her little head high; and, besides, didn’t she know in her heart that she was engaged to the son of a millionaire—the dearest fellow in the world, too, who was coming back in a month to claim her for his happy bride?
She said to herself blithely enough that this selling handkerchiefs across a counter was only an episode in her life, brought about by the jealous malice of Miss Maybelle Maury, and that it would soon be over forever. Next year she would be coming to Maury & Co.’s in her own liveried carriage to buy the costly handkerchiefs of web-lace and fine embroidery. How the girls she worked with now would stare and nudge each other with surprise when she appeared!
She had a foretaste of this one day when a beautiful, brown-eyed woman sailed up to the counter and set all the clerks whispering to each other.
How grand she was, how stately! and her gray gown was a Parisian importation—all the girls knew that, even Floy, though she had been in New York barely a week.
The lady asked for lace handkerchiefs in a musical voice that made Floy’s heart leap wildly, while the frankly admiring brown eyes made her blush like a wild rose; the voice and the eyes were so like—so like those that Floy dreamed of every night.
She was a little nervous while she displayed the beautiful handkerchiefs; some of the girls noticed it, and they whispered to one another that Floy was losing some of her saucy independence, and was overawed at last by a Fifth Avenue swell.
The lady was very kind and gracious, and she looked admiringly at the lovely salesgirl while she counted out the money—something over a hundred dollars—to pay for the dainty trifles she had purchased. As she was turning away, she said:
“Send the package to Mrs. Beresford, No. — Fifth Avenue.”
Then Floy comprehended instantly that the handsome, gracious lady was none other than St. George Beresford’s mother.