“I’ve been expecting it of late,” she remarked. “Well, Laura, Mr. Jadwin is a man of parts. Though, to tell the truth, I thought at first it was to be that Mr. Corthell. He always seemed so distinguished-looking and elegant. I suppose now that that young Mr. Court will have a regular conniption fit.”
“Oh, Landry,” murmured Laura.
“Where are you going to live, Laura? Here? My word, child, don’t be afraid to tell me I must pack. Why, bless you.”
“No, no,” exclaimed Laura, energetically, “you are to stay right here. We’ll talk it all over just as soon as I know more decidedly what our plans are to be. No, we won’t live here. Mr. Jadwin is going to buy a new house—on the corner of North Avenue and State Street. It faces Lincoln Park—you know it, the Farnsworth place.”
“Why, my word, Laura,” cried Aunt Wess’ amazed, “why, it’s a palace! Of course I know it. Why, it takes in the whole block, child, and there’s a conservatory pretty near as big as this house. Well!”
“Yes, I know,” answered Laura, shaking her head. “It takes my breath away sometimes. Mr. Jadwin tells me there’s an art gallery, too, with an organ in it—a full-sized church organ. Think of it. Isn’t it beautiful, beautiful? Isn’t it a happiness? And I’ll have my own carriage and coupe, and oh, Aunt Wess’, a saddle horse if I want to, and a box at the opera, and a country place—that is to be bought day after tomorrow. It’s at Geneva Lake. We’re to go there after we are married, and Mr. Jadwin has bought the dearest, loveliest, daintiest little steam yacht. He showed the photograph of her yesterday. Oh, honey, honey! It all comes over me sometimes. Think, only a year ago, less than that, I was vegetating there at Barrington, among those wretched old bluenoses, helping Martha with the preserves and all and all; and now”—she threw her arms wide—“I’m just going to live. Think of it, that beautiful house, and servants, and carriages, and paintings, and, oh, honey, how I will dress the part!”
“But I wouldn’t think of those things so much, Laura,” answered Aunt Wess’, rather seriously. “Child, you are not marrying him for carriages and organs and saddle horses and such. You’re marrying this Mr. Jadwin because you love him. Aren’t you?”
“Oh,” cried Laura, “I would marry a ragamuffin if he gave me all these things—gave them to me because he loved me.”
Aunt Wess’ stared. “I wouldn’t talk that way, Laura,” she remarked. “Even in fun. At least not before Page.”
That same evening Jadwin came to dinner with the two sisters and their aunt. The usual evening drive with Laura was foregone for this occasion. Jadwin had stayed very late at his office, and from there was to come direct to the Dearborns. Besides that, Nip—the trotters were named Nip and Tuck—was lame.
As early as four o’clock in the afternoon Laura, suddenly moved by an unreasoning caprice, began to prepare an elaborate toilet. Not since the opera night had she given so much attention to her appearance. She sent out for an extraordinary quantity of flowers; flowers for the table, flowers for Page and Aunt Wess’, great American Beauties for her corsage, and a huge bunch of violets for the bowl in the library. She insisted that Page should wear her smartest frock, and Mrs. Wessels her grenadine of great occasions. As for herself, she decided upon a dinner gown of black, décolleté, with sleeves of lace. Her hair she dressed higher than ever. She resolved upon wearing all her jewelry, and to that end put on all her rings, secured the roses in place with an amethyst brooch, caught up the little locks at the back of her head with a heart-shaped pin of tiny diamonds, and even fastened the ribbon of satin that girdled her waist, with a clasp of flawed turquoises.
Until five in the afternoon she was in the gayest spirits, and went down to the dining-room to supervise the setting of the table, singing to herself.
Then, almost at the very last, when Jadwin might be expected at any moment, her humour changed again, and again, for no discoverable reason.
Page, who came into her sister’s room after dressing, to ask how she looked, found her harassed and out of sorts. She was moody, spoke in monosyllables, and suddenly declared that the wearing anxiety of housekeeping was driving her to distraction. Of all days in the week, why had Jadwin chosen this particular one to come to dinner. Men had no sense, could not appreciate a woman’s difficulties. Oh, she would be glad when the evening was over.
Then, as an ultimate disaster, she declared that she herself looked “Dutchy.” There was no style, no smartness to her dress; her hair was arranged unbecomingly; she was growing thin, peaked. In a word, she looked “Dutchy.”
All at once she flung off her roses and dropped into a chair.
“I will not go down tonight,” she cried. “You and Aunt Wess’ must make out to receive Mr. Jadwin. I simply will not see anyone tonight, Mr. Jadwin least of all. Tell him I’m gone to bed sick—which is the truth, I am going to bed, my head is splitting.”
All persuasion, entreaty, or cajolery availed nothing. Neither Page nor Aunt Wess’ could shake her decision. At last Page hazarded a remonstrance to the effect that if she had known that Laura was not going to be at dinner she would not have taken such pains with her own toilet.
Promptly thereat Laura lost her temper.
“I do declare, Page,” she exclaimed, “it seems to me that I get very little thanks forever taking any interest in your personal appearance. There is not a girl in Chicago—no millionaire’s daughter—has any prettier gowns than you. I plan and plan, and go to the most expensive dressmakers so that you will be well dressed, and just as soon as I dare
