“Ah! but there was an element of selfishness about it,” she replied, with a saucy smile, “for I am very, very fond of these dear little forget-me-nots.”
“Yes, I know you are,” said her companion, looking fondly into the lovely, uplifted eyes, and wondering which were the bluer—they or the flowers.
“How fortunate it was that you met that Mr. Bartlett,” Allison continued, in a satisfied tone; “you were in luck, and now we will have just as good a time as we can. Oh, dear, I wish we were not going to Newport on Monday,” she concluded, with a regretful sigh.
“Why! I have always supposed that you have very gay times at Newport,” Gerald observed, with surprise.
“Yes, we do—too gay, and that is just the reason I don’t like it. Everything is so forced—everybody trying to outdo everybody else, just to gratify their vanity and be conspicuous. There isn’t any heart in it—it is all a sort of ‘Vanity Fair’ parade; no matter where you go, you are scrutinized to see if your sleeves are of the latest cut; if your skirts have the right number of gores and measure the correct number of yards; if the crown of your hat is too high or too low, or if you carry the same parasols you had last year. I do like new and pretty things, but I don’t like to be measured and dissected wherever I go, and the probable condition of Adam Brewster’s finances judged accordingly.”
Gerald laughed.
“I think it must be only women who are so well versed in such analytical processes. I am sure the other sex are always impressed by the general effect—the tout ensemble,” he said, as he ran an admiring eye over the dainty figure beside him, and thinking he had never seen Allison more lovely than she appeared at that moment.
She was clad in the finest of India lawn, trimmed with yards and yards of beautiful Valenciennes lace. A rich, white, satin ribbon girdled her waist and floated to the hem of her dress, and costly white kid boots incased her small, shapely feet. The only dash of color about her was the gleaming gold of her hair and the forget-me-nots upon her bosom.
“I reckon you are right, Gerald,” she gravely replied, “the men are more kind and sensible in their judgment. If one is tastefully dressed, and looks pretty, the cost and style do not matter so much. Ah! here is Gladys,” she interposed, as a lovely child came running to meet her. “Now, isn’t she sweet?”
Gerald paused to talk to the little one for a few moments, and then the young couple hurried away to the pavilion, where they were soon whirling among the gay dancers and conscious only of the joy of being in each other’s presence.