“That dress a failure? Why, Ellen Post, it cost ten dollars a yard.” “Shouldn’t wonder; but still, it didn’t come up to my expectations. When the madam came out, she killed it dead.” “Nothing, I believe, came up to any one’s expectations that night. I never spent such an evening. Every one I knew was out of sorts,” said the young lady. “I’m sure the madam was,” answered Ellen. “Never saw her so wild and white in my life. What could have happened? You ought to know, Miss Spicer—you, as one might say, a part of the family.” “No, I’m not, Ellen Post, and it’s likely I never shall be.” “Why, Miss Spicer, I thought it was settled. I am sure the madam treats you as if you were her own daughter, and Mr. Ivon——” “There, there, don’t mention him! It’s only an aggravation. One day sweet as honey-dew, the next after some one else, flirting, like a humming-bird, right before my face, and daring to tell me that another girl—one of those forward, low creatures that sell goods—has rejected him.” Ellen Post dropped the silk which she had been holding, and all its shining folds fell in a heap on the carpet. “Miss Spicer, you don’t mean to say that!” “Yes, I do mean to say just that, and could say more. Only think, Ellen Post, of taking that girl’s leavings, a creature with hair like ink, and eyes hid away under her lashes like a brook sleeping under rushes. Then the impudence of her air, walking like an empress, and she a shawl-fitter, a—a—Oh, I would give five thousand dollars this very hour to see her so disgraced, that he would be ashamed to own that he had ever spoken to her. I hate her very name!” “What is her name?” inquired Ellen Post. “Laurence. Eva Laurence. Such a name for a shop-girl!” “Eva Laurence. I have heard that before. The madam kept saying it over in her sleep the night she came home from Mrs. Carter’s party. She does not like the girl more than you do, I am certain, though I never heard her speak the name except in sleep; then it left her lips white as if henbane had touched them.” “I should not wonder,” exclaimed Miss Spicer, struck by a sudden idea. “Didn’t you tell me that Mr. Ross, the great artist, called here once or twice?” “Once; I remember only once; but she received him in her private room—a thing I do not remember of any other man—and told me to say that she was not at home to a human being. He stayed ever so long—three hours, I should think.” “That is strange,” said the young lady. “She must have known him before.” CHAPTER XLVIII. FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. “Miss Spicer, if you’ll promise never to mention it, I’ll tell you something,” said the maid, after a little consideration. “Well, I promise!”