The rest of the day was, not books, but needlefuls of thread; and from the confusion of laces and draperies, Fleda was almost glad to escape, and go to the concert but for one item; that spoiled it.
They were in their seats early. Fleda managed successfully to place the two Evelyns between her and Mr. Thorn, and then prepared herself to wear out the evening with patience.
"My dear Fleda!" whispered Constance, after some time spent in restless reconnoitring of everything "I don't see my English rose anywhere!"
"Hush!" said Fleda, smiling. "That happened not to be an
English rose, Constance."
"What was it?"
"American, unfortunately; it was a Noisette; the variety, I think, that they call 'Conque de Vénus.' "
"My dear little Fleda, you're too wise for anything!" said Constance, with a rather significant arching of her eye-brows. "You mustn't expect other people to be as rural in their acquirements as yourself. I don't pretend to know any rose by sight but the Queechy," she said, with a change of expression, meant to cover the former one.
Fleda's face, however, did not call for any apology. It was perfectly quiet.
"But what has become of him?" said Constance, with her comic impatience. "My dear Fleda! if my eyes cannot rest upon that development of elegance, the parterre is become a wilderness to me!"
"Hush, Constance!" Fleda whispered earnestly "you are not safe he may be near you."