Miss Wimple, with a slight bow of assent, took from a glass counter-case a paper box in which was a miscellaneous assortment of such articles; there were five or six of the pocket-books. Madeline selected one,—a small, flexible affair, of some dark-colored morocco lined with pink silk. She paid the trifle the shy, demure little librarian demanded, and was taking her leave in silence, without even a "Good-day," when, as she was passing the door, Miss Wimple espied on the counter, near where her customer had stood, a visiting-card; her eye fell on the engraved name,—"Mr. Philip Withers"; of course Miss Splurge had dropped it unawares. She hastened with it to the door,—Madeline had just stept into the street,—
"This card is yours, I presume, Miss Splurge?"
Madeline turned upon her with a surprised air, inquiringly,—looked in her own hands, and shook her handkerchief with the quick, nervous, alarmed movement of one who suddenly discovers a very particular loss,—became, in an instant, pale as death, stared for a moment at Miss Wimple with fixed eyes, and slightly shivered. Then, quickly and fiercely, she snatched the card from Miss Wimple's hand,—
"Where—where did you find this? Did—did I leave—drop—?"
"You left it on my counter," Miss Wimple quietly replied, with a considerate self-possession that admirably counterfeited unconsciousness of Madeline's consternation.
"Come hither, into the shop,—a word with you,"—and Madeline entered quickly, and closed the door behind her. For a moment she leaned with her elbow on the counter, and pressed her eyes with her fingers.
"Are you ill, Miss Splurge?" Miss Wimple gently inquired.
"No. Did you read what is on this card?"
"Yes."
"You—you—you read"——Madeline's hands were clenched, her face red and distorted; she gnashed her teeth, and seemed choking.