She was in one of her elfish moods, the languid grace of her sleepy-eyed moments forgotten. With a little cry of rapture she ran to the piano, and dashed into a gay, tinkling air with brilliancy and abandon. Her head, surmounted by a perky, high-peaked, narrow-brimmed hat, with a flaming red bird in front, glorified by the braid and “waterfall” of that day, bent forward and turned to flash an appeal for sympathy toward Orde.
“There, I feel more able to stay on earth!” she cried, springing to her feet. “Now I'll get on my gloves and we'll start.”
She turned slowly before the mirror, examining quite frankly the hang of her skirt, the fit of her close-cut waist, the turn of the adorable round, low-cut collars that were then the mode.
“It pays to be particular; we are in New York,” she answered, or parried, Orde's glance of admiration.
The gloves finally drawn on and buttoned, Orde held aside the portieres, and she passed fairly under his uplifted hand. He wanted to drop his arm about her, this slender girl with her quaint dignity, her bird-like ways, her gentle, graceful, mysterious, feminine soul. The flame-red bird lent its colour to her cheeks; her eyes, black and fathomless, the pupils wide in this dim light, shone with two stars of delight.
But, as they moved toward the massive front doors, Mrs. Bishop came down the stairs behind them. She, too, was dressed for the street. She received Orde's greeting and congratulation over her improved health in rather an absent manner. Indeed, as soon as she could hurry this preliminary over, she plunged into what evidently she considered a more important matter.
“You aren't thinking of going out, are you?” she asked Carroll.
“I told you, mother; don't you remember? Mr. Orde and I are going to get a little air in the park.”
“I'm sorry,” said Mrs. Bishop, with great brevity and decision, “but I'm going to the rectory to help Mr. Merritt, and I shall want you to go too, to see about the silver.”
“But, mother,” expostulated Carroll, “wouldn't Marie do just as well?”