MISS SPICER.
A card was brought into the dainty boudoir in which Mrs. Lambert was
conversing with her son. This was followed so quickly by Miss Lucy
Spicer, that there was no possibility of refusing her admission, even if
the occupants of the room had desired it. But her presence was welcome
to the lady, for she arose promptly to receive her guest, glad to escape
a subject which was hateful to her.
“Looking younger and more lovely than ever!” exclaimed Miss Spicer,
after kissing the lady with enthusiasm. “I wonder if it will be possible
for me to grow handsomer as I grow older? Of course not. It’s only one
or two women in a generation that can do that.”
Here Miss Spicer seemed to become suddenly aware of Ivon’s presence, and
addressed him.
“Now this is a treat, Mr. Lambert; one never expects to find you at
home; but here, with mamma, in this bijou of a room, is a surprise.
Come, now, let us make up before the maternal ancestor. It wasn’t my
fault. I couldn’t, for the life of me, help seeing you, and that
abominably handsome shop-girl. Why didn’t you take a back street?”
“Then it was Miss Spicer. I could not imagine who had done me the honor
of reporting my movements,” said the young man, bowing low.
“Angry, ha! Don’t like people to make a note of his little escapades.
Well, it isn’t quite fair. But when one overleaps all the barriers of
society so bravely, of course, he must expect it to be known.”
“And, of course, young ladies who have nothing else to do, must be
expected to magnify and multiply the news.”
Miss Spicer threw up her hands.
“Nothing else to do! Now I like that; as if there ever was seen a
creature so hard-working as a young lady in society. Only think of the
notes one has to write; putting off disagreeable people, and enticing
the other set on; the shopping; the walks down town just as business
breaks up, when crowds of us turn southward as steadily as sunflowers
keep with the sun; hunting down dress-makers, tormenting milliners,
reading all the French novels, little flirtations with one’s
music-master, learning love phrases with one’s Italian teacher. I tell
you, Mr. Lambert, one has to crowd life even to get in gossip and
scandal enough to spice it respectably. Don’t talk to me about having
nothing else to do.”
“I never will again. The occupations you enumerate are too grand and
noble for dispute. Hereafter I shall set down a fashionable young lady
as the busiest and most useful creature on earth.”
“Of course we are. Eternally on the go, scarcely time to breathe from
morning till night.”
“Perhaps that is why so many of them are called ‘fast,’” said Lambert,
demurely.
“Oh, you abominable creature!” cried the young lady, shaking her
cane-parasol at Lambert. “That’s intended for me; but I don’t accept it.
You are to consider me as among the prudes and conservatives, remember.
Did I not come here to rebuke your own fast conduct? Don’t expect to get
rid of the shop-girl by attacking me.”
“I have no wish to get rid of her in any way, Miss Spicer,” said
Lambert, gravely. “Nor do I care to make her the subject of this
conversation. Mother, have you any commands?”
Mrs. Lambert, who had been quietly listening to this war of words, shook
her head.
“Oh! if you are going down the Avenue, I don’t mind walking a block or
two,” said the irrepressible Miss Spicer, pulling down her lace mask,
and grasping the coral-mounted handle of her parasol, as if it had, in
fact, been a cane.
“It will require something of that kind to set you right, after your
promenade with the lady we don’t care to mention. But, wait one moment,
I had forgotten what brought me here. Mrs. Lambert, do give me your
advice. I have a card for that Mrs. Carter’s party. What shall I do
about it?”
Mrs. Lambert looked up quickly, and a flush of unusual color came into
her face.
“I—I beg pardon; what did you say, Miss Spicer?”
“Only if I can venture on accepting. She is so awful shoddy, it will be
great fun.”
“I have received cards,” answered Mrs. Lambert, quietly, “and it is
probable that I may accept.”
Miss Spicer let her parasol drop to the floor, and clapped both hands.
“That is splendid! Then we can all accept. They tell me her house was
like a curiosity-shop, when her brother, a great artist, came from
abroad, and pitched all the trash she had been collecting, into the
stable. He’s splendid, every one says! Awfully handsome, and so
aristocratic. I know half a dozen girls that are dying to go on his
account. The wall-flowers are all in a flutter, I can tell you, for he
isn’t young.”
Mrs. Lambert arose hastily, walked across the room, and re-arranged the
folds of an amber-satin curtain, that fell over a broad window of the
boudoir. In her nervous haste, she loosened the heavy cords that held
it, flooding the window with silken drapery, and the room with mellow,
golden light.
Miss Spicer laughed, lifted her parasol from the floor, and began
gathering up the folds of silk with it, thus throwing Mrs. Lambert’s
face into full light.
“Why, how strangely you look!” she said, in her reckless way. “Pale as a
ghost! Wanted air, and going to open the window. I’ll do it for you.”
A gush of fresh air swept through the open sash, and brought some color
to Mrs. Lambert’s face.
“Are you better, dear madam?” said Ivon, approaching the window with
tender anxiety.
“Better! No, indeed! I’ve not been ill. It was only the shadows thrown
from this yellow drapery. Help me draw the cords. No, no! leave the lace
down, a softened light is pleasanter. Now, Ivon, I will not detain you
or Miss Spicer from your walk.”
“That is giving us both a polite dismissal,” cried the young lady,
laughing. “Well, come along, Mr. Lambert, your maternal ancestor gives
permission. I won’t take your arm unless you insist. No one will have a
right to think us engaged, if I walk along demurely by myself, not even
the pretty——What, frowning! Well, I never will say she’s pretty
again—never! never! never!”