“Do we know of a good dressmaker in the place?” repeated Miss Milner, in her loud cheerful voice, very much to Nan’s discomfort, for the clergyman looked up from his paper at once. “Miss Monks was a tolerable fit, but, poor thing! she died a few weeks ago; and Mrs. Slasher, who lives over Viner’s the haberdasher’s, cannot hold a candle to her. Miss Masham there,”—pointing to a smart ringleted young person, evidently her assistant,—“had her gown ruined by her: hadn’t you, Miss Masham?”
Miss Masham simpered, but her reply was inaudible; but the young lady who was standing near them suddenly turned round:
“There is Mrs. Langley, who lives just by. I shall be very happy to give these ladies her address, for she is a widow with little children, and I am anxious to procure her work—” and then she looked at Nan, and hesitated; “that is, if you are not very particular,” she added, with sudden embarrassment, for even in her morning dress there was a certain style about Nan that distinguished her from other people.
“Thank you, Miss Drummond,” returned Miss Milner, gratefully. “Shall I write down the address for you, ma’am?”
“Yes,—no,—thank you very much, but perhaps it does not matter,” returned Nan, hurriedly, feeling awkward for the first time in her life. But Phillis, who realized all the humor of the situation, interposed:
“The address will do us no harm, and we may as well have it, although we should not trouble Mrs. Langley. I will call in again, Miss Milner, to-morrow morning, and then I will explain what it is we really want. We are in a hurry now,” continued Phillis, loftily, turning away with a dignified inclination of her head toward the officious stranger.
Phillis was not prepossessed in her favor. She was a dark, wiry little person, not exactly plain, but with an odd, comical face; and she was dressed so dowdily and with such utter disregard of taste that Phillis instinctively felt Mrs. Langley was not to be dreaded. 75
“What a queer little body! Do you think she belongs to him?” she asked Nan, as they walked rapidly toward Beach House.
“What in the world made you strike in after that fashion?” demanded the young man, as he and his companion followed more slowly in the strangers’ footsteps. “That is just your way, Mattie, interfering and meddling in other folks’ affairs. Why cannot you mind your own business sometimes,” he continued, irritably, “instead of putting your foot into other people’s?”
“You are as cross as two sticks this afternoon, Archie,” returned his sister, composedly. She had a sharp little pecking voice that seemed to match her, somehow; for she was not unlike a bright-eyed bird, and had quick pouncing movements. “Wait a moment: my braid has got torn, and is dragging.”