"But you might enjoy the flowers for their own sake, I should think," said Fleda, breathing the sweetness of myrtle and heliotrope.
"No, I can't, for I have all the time the association of some horrid creature they might have come from, you know; but it will do just as well to humbug people: I shall make Cornelia Schenck believe that this came from my dear Mr. Carleton!"
"No, you wont, Constance," said Fleda, gently.
"My dear little Fleda, I shock you, don't I? but I sha'n't tell any lies; I shall merely expressively indicate a particular specimen, and say, 'My dear Cornelia, do you perceive that this is an English rose?' and then it's none of my business, you know, what she believes; and she will be dying with curiosity and despair all the rest of the evening."
"I shouldn't think there would be much pleasure in that, I confess," said Fleda, gravely. "How very ungracefully and stiffly those are made up!"
"My dear little Queechy rose," said Constance, impatiently, "you are, pardon me, as fresh as possible. They can't cut the flowers with long stems, you know; the gardeners would be ruined. That is perfectly elegant; it must have cost at least ten dollars. My dear little Fleda!" said Constance, capering off before the long pier-glass, "I am afraid I am not captivating! Do you think it would be an improvement if I put drops in my ears? or one curl behind them? I don't know which Mr. Carleton likes best!"
And with her head first on one side and then on the other, she stood before the glass looking at herself and Fleda by turns with such a comic expression of mock doubt and anxiety, that no gravity but her own could stand it.
"She is a silly girl, Fleda, isn't she?" said Mrs. Evelyn, coming up behind them.
"Mamma! am I captivating?" cried Constance, wheeling round.
The mother's smile said "Very!"