“He spoke to me friendly and squeedged my 'and, he did. S'elp me never, it's true. Gimme a black cloth on the corfin, my dear, and mind yer tell 'im to foller.”
“Yes, mammie, yes. I will-be sure I—I—Oh!”
It was Glory's first death.
IX.
John Storm had been through his first morning call that afternoon. For this ordeal he had presented himself in a flannel shirt in the hall, where the canon was waiting for him in patent-leather boots and kid gloves, and his daughter Felicity in cream silk and white feathers. After they had seated themselves in the carriage the canon, said: “You don't quite do yourself justice, Mr. Storm. Believe me, to be well dressed is a great thing to a young man making his way in London.”
The carriage stopped at a house that seemed to be only round the corner.
“This is Mrs. Macrae's,” the canon whispered. “An American lady-widow of a millionaire. Her daughter—you will see her presently—is to marry into one of our best English families.”
They were walking up the wide staircase behind the footman in blue. There was a buzz of voices coming from a room above.