“Would you be ashamed of her?” “Ashamed? Why you and I can make her like a princess. She can go out with me in the carriage, write my letters, make calls. She shall have a maid of her own—shopping money without end.” “There, there, sister, your heart is running away with you. We must be kind to the girl without spoiling her. She is a sweet, modest young creature, rich in feeling and bright as a flower. Let us keep her so.” “Of course—of course! Carter will be delighted. He does so like a pretty face, and hers is lovely.” “But he may not consent?” “He? Of course he will! All she’s got to do with Carter is to have his slippers ready, and read the newspaper for him, now and then; for, between you and me, Carter is not much of a reader, on his own hook. Oh, he’s sure to like it!” Ross leaned forward and kissed the flushed cheeks, which had become rosier and rosier, with the warmth of a generous nature. “Then we will consider it settled,” he said. “I mentioned it just now, because this evening will be an excellent time for introducing her as a friend of the family. That was a part of my idea, when I asked you to invite her.” “This evening? Well, why not, she can help me receive. It will be splendid. I only hope she will be dressed properly—that is, like the heiress we intend her to be.” “We need not doubt that—now I will go for her.” “And I’ll just step down and have a talk with Carter about it.” CHAPTER XXXVI. THE WAY SHE MANAGED HIM. Ross and his sister parted; she went into her husband’s room, and found him in the agony of putting on a new dress coat, rather too small, and which fitted him like a straight jacket. “Mrs. Carter—Mrs. Carter, just come and give this skirt a pull, won’t you? I feel as if corked up in a junk-bottle. Confound all your parties, and everything else that takes a fellow out of his frock-coat!” “Why, Carter, dear, it’s a lovely fit. Of course you must expect to be tightened up a little at such a time. Only look at me, would you ever have believed my waist could have been brought down to that, yet I don’t complain. There are things, Carter, for which we must suffer.” Carter wiped his red face with a towel, there being nothing else convenient, at which his wife cried out, “Why, Carter!” and ran to a drawer, from which she brought a handkerchief of the finest linen, with an embroidered monogram in the corner. Over this she dashed a liberal quantity of perfume from a scent-bottle, which she shook as if it had been a pepper-box. Then she brought out a point lace barb, parted over a white, silk cravat, which she tied around his stout, red neck, leaving a kiss on his cheek when it was arranged to suit her.