morning she prepared Mrs. ¬ÝVanderpool‚Äôs breakfast with unusual care. She was sorry for Mrs. ¬ÝVanderpool, and sorry for Miss Smith. They would not, they could not, understand. What would happen to her? She did not know; she did not care. The Silver Fleece had returned to her. Soon it would be buried in the swamp whence it came. She had no alternative; she must keep it and wait.
She heard the dressmaker‚Äôs voice, and then her step upon the stair. She heard the sound of Harry Cresswell‚Äôs buggy, and a scurrying at the front door. On came the dressmaker‚Äôs footsteps‚ÅÝ‚Äîthen her door was unceremoniously burst open.
Helen Cresswell stood there radiant; the dressmaker, too, was wreathed in smiles. She carried a big red-sealed bundle.
‚ÄúZora!‚Äù cried Helen in ecstasy. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs come!‚Äù Zora regarded her coldly, and stood at bay. The dressmaker was ripping and snipping, and soon there lay revealed before them‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe Paris gown!
Helen was in raptures, but her conscience pricked her. She appealed to them. “Ought I to tell? You see, Mary’s gown will look miserably common beside it.”
The dressmaker was voluble. There was really nothing to tell; and besides, Helen was a Cresswell and it was to be expected, and so forth.
Helen pursed her lips and petulantly tapped the floor with her foot.
“But the other gown?”
‚ÄúWhere is it?‚Äù asked the dressmaker, looking about. ‚ÄúIt would make a pretty morning-dress‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
But Helen had taken a sudden dislike to the thought of it.