"George! You are too bad altogether," said Mary.
"Mr. Selby, you are a dreadful quiz," said Betsey, not at all displeased. "But about my dress. I was quite disappointed to find you were not at hand as we went out, I wanted you to admire it. Beautifully made. It must have cost a lot of money. Black tulle, with any quantity of Marshal Niell roses, and just a morsel of scarlet salvia here and there to light it up. The salvia was my own idea, and an immense improvement. The dressmaker said all she could against it, and a deal about severe simplicity; but I hate simpletons of all kinds, and I fear my taste is not severe at all. However, it was I who was to wear the gown, so I had my way. I would not have chosen black myself, but M----" (with a returning flush) "Mrs. Herkimer said black, so what could I do? I am fond of warm colouring myself, and a good deal of it. That is why I got my geranium poplin; but one wants a change, and the tulle is that. Only it is so quiet, nobody would guess how expensive it is."
"I would pin a card with the price on behind. People who wear ready-made clothing have been known to appear in public so decorated, when the shopman forgot to remove his ticket. It attracts a good deal of attention. All for $15 say, or your choice for $20."
"It cost a great deal more than that, Mr. Selby," answered Betsey, with just a touch of crossness in the tone, as she began to recognize that she was being chaffed. "Shows how little you know about ladies' wear," she added, as Selby rose to go into another room and give her music lesson to Muriel Stanley, who could be heard arriving.
The ladies gathered round the fire and proceeded to talk over the events of the party. Betsey sat in the middle in front of the blaze, and as opportunity offered, strove to enlighten the inexperience of her elders in matters of "style" and good behaviour, with items drawn chiefly from her recollections of "Godey's Magazine," which were copious, and sometimes startling, and illustrated by reminiscences of festivity at St. Euphrase, in which a certain Mr. Joe Webb appeared to have borne a prominent part. She was still in full career when Selby returned, introducing Muriel Stanley, whom for his wife's sake he had persuaded to come and shake hands with her cousin at that early hour. Mary was leaning back in her chair, and had armed herself with patience to endure the torrent of Betsey's talk, which needed only an occasional exclamation of dissent, easily overborne, from Judith, to keep it running in the full turbulence of its muddy flow. No word of hers was needed, and her thoughts had drifted away into their accustomed channels. Her husband noted the flush of pleasure and the kindling of her eye at sight of the stranger, who also seemed drawn to the invalid, and who, in the rearranging of the party, dropped into a low seat by her side. Unconsciously, as it seemed, Mary's hand was laid on the girl's shoulder, and then, as recollecting itself, drew back, to steal again involuntarily towards her, and touch her hair.
Muriel, too, unwittingly seemed to lean towards the other, and accept contentedly the unconscious caress; and George, regarding them, could not but wonder how the girl seemed drawn to his wife, so nearly a stranger to her, even in the presence of the others whom she saw so constantly in the country. It showed the tenderness of a womanly heart, he thought, and its overflowing sympathy, thus silently to go out to the stricken invalid, and he loved and admired his favourite pupil more than he had ever done before.
The loquacious Betsey had other things to think of, things to speak about, and to speak about a great deal. The subject of the party was taken up again from the beginning, to be gone all over once more, while Judith held her hands out to the blaze to shield her eyes, and Mary sat mutely happy, she knew not why, gently stroking the hair plait with her finger.
"You were not at Mrs. Herkimer's party last night, Muriel? and I did not see your aunts."
"No, they were not there. Aunt Matilda rarely goes to a dance, except a juvenile one, when I am invited. I am not out yet, you know."
"To be sure not, Muriel; I know it. Time enough, my dear," said this experienced woman of the world. "Your time will come quite soon enough, and I hope you will enjoy it. Ah!----" and she heaved an ecstatic sigh, "It was a lovely party. So many gentlemen! And such a floor! I put in a heavenly time, Muriel. I wish you could have seen it. I wish you could have seen me in my new ball-dress--a present, you know--from auntie's niece--by Mme. Jupon! no less--just too elegant for anything. Quite subdued, you know--black tulle--much draped. Too subdued, if anything, for my taste--you know I like things cheerful--but awfully sweet. Garnitures of roses--large Marshal Niell roses--dollars and dollars' worth of them--frightfully expensive--and real chaste. I saw the people asking each other who that elegantly-dressed person could be, and my card was filled up just like winking. There was, let me see, there was Mr.---- But what of that? You are not out yet. You could not be expected to know any of them. But it was lovely. Oh, how some of those dear men do valse!"