Guardian and ward -- Fiction; Love stories; Mate selection -- Fiction
Mrs. Keith had long been for Nora an object of mystical veneration.
Roger had been in the habit of alluding to her, not freely nor
frequently, but with a certain implicit consideration which more than
once had set Nora wondering. She entered the lady’s drawing-room
that evening with an oppressive desire to please. The interest
manifested by Roger in the question of what she should wear assured
her that he had staked a nameless something on the impression she
might make. She was not only reassured, however, but altogether
captivated, by the lavish cordiality of her hostess. Mrs. Keith
kissed her on both cheeks, held her at her two arms’ length, gave a
twist to the fall of her sash, and made her feel very plainly that
she was being inspected and appraised. All this was done, however,
with a certain flattering light in the eye and a tender matronly
smile which rather increased than diminished the young girl’s
composure. Mrs. Keith was herself so elegant, so finished, so
fragrant of taste and sense, that before an hour was over Nora felt
that she had borrowed the hint of a dozen indispensable graces.
After dinner her hostess bade her sit down to the piano. Here,
feeling sure of her ground, Nora surpassed herself. Mrs. Keith
beckoned to Roger to come and sit beside her on the sofa, where, as
she nodded time to the music with her head, she softly conversed.
Prosperity, as I have intimated, had acted on her moral nature very
much as a medicinal tonic—quinine or iron—acts upon the physical.
She was in a comfortable glow of charity. She itched gently, she
hardly knew where,—was it in heart or brain?—to render some one a
service. She had on hand a small capital of sentimental patronage
for which she desired a secure investment. Here was her chance. The
project which Roger had imparted to her three years before seemed to
her, now she had taken Nora’s measure, to contain such pretty
elements of success that she deemed it a sovereign pity it should not
be rounded into symmetry. She determined to lend an artistic hand.
“Does she know it, that matter?” she asked in a whisper.
“I have never told her.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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