"Thank you, I wish I could," was the answer. "But when I do come to London I have so many little commissions to execute that my time has to be almost entirely given to them. I shall hope to call and see you the next time."
"I wish you would come and stay with me for a week," cried Adela, quickly. "It would be a charity—an oasis of pleasure in my lonely life."
"Lonely from the want of children," thought Mrs. Cleveland, with a sad, faint smile.
"Are you quite well?" asked Adela, quickly, some delicacy in Mrs. Cleveland's face striking her.
"I—hope I am," was the hesitating answer. "At least, I hope that nothing serious is amiss. It is true I have not felt quite right lately, have suffered much pain; and one of my errands here is to see a physician. He has made an appointment for tomorrow morning."
Adela renewed her invitation, wished her good-day, and watched the rather fragile form away with a wistful look. They never saw each other again in life. Before two months had run their course, poor Mrs. Cleveland had gone where pain and suffering are not.
Meanwhile, when the show-rooms had thinned a little, Madame Damereau had the "caisse" brought out: that is to say, the contents of it. The caisse was taken for granted; the articles only appeared. The chief one, the lace dress, new from Paris, and secluded till that moment from covetous eyes, was of a species of lace that madame called Point d'Angleterre.
Madame shook out its folds with tender solicitude, and displayed its temptations before Mrs. Dalrymple's enthralled eyes. Madame did not speak; she let the dress do its own work: her face spoke eloquently enough. Selina was sitting on one of the low crimson velvet ottomans, her parasol tracing unconscious figures on the carpet, and her own elegant silk gown spread out around her.
"Oh dear!" she ejaculated, withdrawing her enraptured gaze. "But I fear it is very dear."
"Never let madame talk about that," said the Frenchwoman. "It is high; but—look at it. One could not pick up such a dress as that every day."