He gave vent to a low whistle, and exclaimed, under his breath, as he deposited his cane in the stand and drew off his gloves:
"Jove! I imagined her to be some high-toned caller, and she is only some working girl. Really, though, she is as fine a specimen of young womanhood as I have encountered in many a day, and I should like to see more of her. Ah, Aunt Marg," he went on, as Mrs. Montague came sweeping down the stairs, just then, in an elaborate dinner costume, "how fine you look, and I'm on time, you perceive! How about the McKenzie reception to-night?"
"We must go, of course," responded the lady, in a somewhat weary tone, "for Mrs. McKenzie would be offended if we should remain away, though I am really too tired after the Ashton ball last evening to go out again; besides, I do not like to wear a dress that isn't properly finished; but I shall have to, for the girls cannot possibly do all that needs to be done."
"You are too particular, Aunt Marg. What if every seam isn't bound just as you like it? Your general make-up is always superb. By the way, who was that girl in black who just came in and went up stairs?" the young man concluded, as if it had only just occurred to him to inquire regarding her.
"Oh, that was Ruth Richards, my seamstress; she had just been out on an errand," Mrs. Montague indifferently returned as they passed into the drawing-room.
"Ruth Richards? Pretty name, isn't it?" her companion remarked, "and the girl herself is a stunner—one does not often meet so lovely a seamstress."
Mrs. Montague turned upon him sharply.
"Nonsense, Louis," she said, impatiently; "don't allow your head to be turned by every pretty face that you see. There are plenty of fine-looking girls in our own set, without wasting your admiration upon a poor sewing-girl."
"I never should have imagined that she was a sewing-girl," Mr. Hamblin returned. "I supposed her to be some aristocratic young lady of your acquaintance, who had come for a social call. She carries herself like a young queen; her form is simply perfect, and her face!—well, were I an artist I should love to paint it," he concluded, with unusual enthusiasm.
Mrs. Montague shrugged her graceful shoulders, and curled her red lips scornfully.