Madame’s tone was still agitated, and she seemed flurried and uneasy under Floy’s glance. The girl noted it, and with true delicacy turned her eyes in another direction while Mary performed the required service. Madame stood up before the glass. “I think it fits, Mary, doesn’t it?” “I think not quite. Shall Miss Kemper look at it?” Madame assented, and Floy’s nimble fingers were presently busied about her, she meanwhile earnestly regarding the reflection of the young face in the glass. It seemed to have far more interest for her than the fit of the new gown, though ordinarily she was eager as a child in regard to any new article of dress. “Does it satisfy you now, Madame?” asked Floy at length. The Madame started as if waking from a dream, glanced at the image of her own portly figure, and responded with a hasty “Yes, yes, it is all right! Child, you look tired, wretchedly tired--almost ill. You must rest. Sit down in that chair, and Mary shall bring you some refreshments.” “Many thanks, but I have no time for rest; these are busy days for dressmakers,” Floy answered, with a sad smile, thinking of the piles of dress patterns still untouched, and garments in various stages of completion, in Mrs. Sharp’s work-room. “Sit down!” repeated the Madame, with an imperious gesture; “I am used to obedience from all in this house. Just slip my wrapper on again, Mary, and then go to my closet and bring out all the good things you can find.” Mary obeyed, nothing loath, for she too felt drawn to the young stranger, and Floy presently had spread before her a tempting variety of cakes, confectionery, and tropical fruits. In vain she protested that she was not hungry; Madame would not be content till she had seen her eat an orange and a bunch of grapes, and put a paper of candies into her pocket. For the rest of the day the Madame insisted upon occupying an easy chair in the sewing-room, where, with Frisky curled up in her lap and the latest novel in her hand, she furtively watched Floy’s movements, and when she spoke, listened with ill-concealed eagerness to every tone of her voice. Floy, whose thoughts were far away, was scarcely conscious of this strange interest taken in her, but Mary noted it with wonder and growing curiosity shared by Kathleen, who had been, as she anticipated, summoned to the work of running the machine. They telegraphed each other with nods, winks, and smiles, neither the Madame nor Floy perceiving. “The sun has set, and it is growing dark,” remarked the Madame, closing her book and breaking in on a long silence. “You are straining your eyes in your efforts to thread that needle, Miss Kemper. Come, put up your work and rest a little, while Mary and Kathleen prepare our tea.” “Thank you, Madame,” said Floy, “but Mrs. Sharp would not approve of so early a rest, and if I may have a light I will go on with the work.”