At her light, merry tone every one laughed, and Mrs. Van Dorn said, consolingly:
“I dare say it is only some pretty little actress, that he will forget in a week.”
“I only hope so,” sighed Mrs. Beresford; and then Mrs. Van Dorn, pitying her embarrassment, turned the conversation into other channels.
They talked of books and art, and now Mrs. Beresford could turn the tables on mischievous Alva.
“I shall punish Alva finely for telling my secret woes!” she exclaimed.
Every one turned to her eagerly, and she continued:
“You see, Alva is painting a Cupid, but she can not find a face to please her; and yesterday I saw a little salesgirl—in your father’s store, by the way, Miss Maury—who had an ideal face for the picture. Such a face! all dimples and roses, blue eyes, and rings of golden hair on the graceful boyish head. And her smile—it was something to dream of were one a man—saucy, sweet, enchanting—such a smile as Cupid himself might wear when drawing his bow to transfix a heart. Well,” drawing a long breath, “I meant to go to-morrow morning and secure this little beauty as a model for Alva’s Cupid, but to punish her now I shall not do so, so the charming picture will never be painted.”
“You cruel mamma, I shall go and find her myself to-morrow, and you will be balked of your revenge!” exclaimed Alva, with sparkling eyes; and for the rest of the time she could think of nothing but the lovely face she was going to secure for her Cupid.
Otho whispered to Maybelle:
“It must have been Floy that she saw at father’s store.”