Helen had seemed almost to renew her youth while making ready for Dorothy's marriage, and had thrown herself into the business before her with no less enthusiasm than that manifested by the fair bride-elect herself.
She simply reveled in choosing the dainty and pretty things that were to comprise the trousseau, while with her own skillful fingers she fashioned many lovely accessories, which, had she purchased them, would have been very expensive, if not entirely beyond her means.
Dorothy was to go into a beautiful and sumptuous home; she would mingle with fashionable and wealthy people, whom, in turn, she would also have to entertain; and, with rare judgment and faultless taste, Helen had planned an ample outfit for her, that was both elegant and suitable for all occasions, yet without being too costly for her income.
One morning, a few days after Dorothy had related the story of their early troubles to her lover, mother and daughter started forth upon one of their interesting shopping expeditions. They were in their brightest mood, for, with the happy termination of the much-dreaded ordeal which their sense of honor had compelled them to face, with a free conscience, and increased love and respect for the man who was soon to assume closer relations with them, the world seemed all rose color and gold to these devoted chums as they pursued their way downtown with a long list of items upon their memorandum tablets.
They spent a busy morning together, after which they had a light lunch, when, at one o'clock, Dorothy had an appointment with her dressmaker, and Helen went back to the stores alone.
Among other things, there were handkerchiefs to be selected, and she slipped into Rolston's to see what she could find there. As she paused before the counter, she found herself standing beside a woman who was evidently waiting for her change and her purchase to be returned. Something about her figure and the contour of her face—which, she observed, was heavily powdered and rouged—impelled Helen to take a second look; when, as if actuated by some occult influence, the stranger turned a bold, rude stare upon her, and chain lightning could hardly have been more swift or blinding than the blazing, spiteful look which leaped into her eyes as they swept Helen from head to foot.
A vindictive sneer began to curl her full, red lips; her heavy brows contracted in an ugly, frown, as, with a mocking shrug of her shapely shoulders, she shot forth a single venom-barbed word:
"Well!"
Instantly, with a shock that seemed to cleave her heart in twain, Helen recognized her.
She was the soubrette, Marie Duncan, with whom John Hungerford had gone abroad ten years ago, and whom he had afterward married. But she was no longer the gay, captivating coquette she had been when she had lured him from his allegiance to his family. Her form had grown stout, less symmetrical than of yore; her features coarse and sensuous; her skin had become rough and porous, from too free use of cosmetics, and evidently the world was not at present using her very well, for she was cheaply clothed, though with a tawdry attempt at style which only accentuated the fact of her poverty.