“I shall send for Dr. Steel.”
“As you please.”
“And don’t you be afraid of getting your money.”
“That is a secondary consideration.”
“Oh, I guess not, operations don’t cost twopence-halfpenny. I’ll send for Steel at once.”
Murchison took his hat and gloves.
“Then, Mrs. Baxter, I had better wish you good-morning?”
And being too much of a philosopher to accuse the lady of ingratitude, he left her in possession of her prejudices.
It had been the season of garden-fêtes at Roxton, when the gracious gowns of the mesdames and demoiselles glorified the sleek lawns and herb-scented gardens of the old town. Gay colors and piquant hats were in July flower, save for the few sober weeds who put forth no gaudy corolla to attract the winged messengers of love. Mrs. Betty had paraded the terraces and yew walks in dove-colored silk, in crimson, and in lilac. Her successive sunshades were as so many royal flowers that came as by magic from the house of glass. She was an æsthetic spirit, and loved beauty, particularly when the picture was painted upon the surface of her own pier-glass.
Yet, delectable as she was with her pale and sinuous glamour, Mrs. Betty had many rebuffs to remember within the sound of St. Antonia’s bells. Dull, domesticated ladies in a country town do not embrace with enthusiasm a young and fascinating woman who has a habit of drawing the men about her. Mrs. Betty was regarded as a dangerous person, a species of Circe who looked sidelong into the faces of respectable married men, and possessed a mother-wit and a vivacity that made her seem like sparkling wine beside the “domestic ditch-water” she abhorred.