The Manitowoc pilot. [volume] (Manitowoc, Wis.) 1859-1932, 1886-02-25

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came in, and there was a bit of water in
the vase where you put it, so | thought
you would not wish it disturbed"
Did faint blush mantle that smooth
white brow, or was it the wanton fire.
light which filed the room?
Every well, Barker; it is of no further
value. y
And now the hair is done and the
muslin gown is dolied for a robe OF pale
India cashmere lined throughout with
quilted satin and trimmed from neck to
hem and at throat and wrists with cost
" fur. Then Barker hands a bit of
embroidered cambric exhaling faint
spicy fragrance, and draws aside a
heavy portiere, through which made
moiselle passes to a morning-room be-
yond, beautiful, coy apartment full
of bric-a-brac and objects of art, an open
upright piano in one corner, with a
banjo, the latest craze, tilting its flat
sphere against one leg. 4 sea-coal fire
glows IN the FURNISHED CRATE, tiger
skin rug sprawls before it, and a break
fast service of transparent china and
old silver is set out upon a claw-legged
mahogany table near the center of the
room.
As mademoiselle enters, beautiful
collie leaps forward, fawning against
her and thrusting his nose under her
caressing hand. His mistress pats him
a little absently and moves on to the
table, where at her plate is piled the
morning mail Letters, notes, cards of
invitation, one or two black-edged
funeral announcements, for death moves
in the best society, too-she looks them
all over without great eagerness, though
her eyes brighten when she opens one
to read that q prominent man Of fashion
begS the honor of leading a coming
much-talked-of c0tillon with her, nor do
they dull when the next note informs
her that her presence is desired among
a small select party which an aristo-
cratic society matron is arranging to
take to her country-house for winters
lark. She goes on through her letters
while a servant brings the breakfast
fruit, chocolate, pair of reed birds,
with potatoes a la creme, with an
omelette aux confitures.
Mademoiselle eats with relish and
appetite, while the dog. on his launches
by her side, his forefeet on the floor,
makes with his head in the air long.
silky, inclined plane of his back, which
ends effectively in a brush OF waving
fur. His eyes follow every movement of
the fair eater, but his dumb entreaty
gains him naught till the meal is done
One letter of her many that morning
she has not yet opened. She takes this
now, and as she breaks the seal the
same tleeting look which the dying rose
had evolved comes back. The note is
short, half dozen lines:
Il found my orders awaiting me last
night | leave tonight. May | call
late this afternoon to say Goodbye"
The letter drops from her hand. The
dog sees her cessation from writing and
comes over to her feet.
Yes, Sultan" she says, stroking his
head, she may come to say good-by,
and then we will think no more of this
charming young officer with his small
pay and slow promotion, and his tempt
ing suggestion of frontier barracks life"
One more letter is quickly added to
the number waiting to be sent, then
mademoiselle hurries to her room,
where Barker already awaits her.
Twenty minutes later, perfectly
dressed in costume of cloth and fur,
whose elegant simplicity equaled its ex-
travagant cost, gloved ike a French
woman and shod like an English peer
ess, mademoiselle enters her carriage,
and the tall footman holding the door
bends to receive her initial order.
She drives to her tailor's where she
mounts wooden horse to have new
habit adjusted, to the jewelers. to select
a present for fashionable wedding; at
a florists she orders a funeral piece sent
to a society house of mourning; she
leaves her carriage for five minutes at
picture-gallery to glance at canvas
which her world is discussing; she
shows herself at a business meeting of
a charitable organization of which she
is member long enough to say that
she will stand at the Russian table in a
coming festival; she drives to the fur
riers TO choose her sables, and to her
bootmaker' s for consultation over bot
tines la St Petersburg, and she hurries
finally into the boudoir of her dearest
friend
Just to hope, dear, that you are 60
ing down to Oakcliff with Mrs. L. on
the 2lst No? So sorry. And, oh,
Nell, will you kindly lend me that little
book on figures for the german your
brother sent out from Vienna last
month? MIR. r. and | want some novel
ties for the Worthington ball.
''That is the last" she says to herself
when she has kissed her
friend good-by, and Home is the
word the footman takes as he climbs to
the coachman' 5 side.
1t is 2:30 when Barker is getting her
out of her outdoor wraps. and luncheon
is served, she is told. That meal over,
she must give her maid ten minutes
confab over the evenings dresses and
twenty more to criticise an arrangement
her dressmaker has sent for inspection.
Then few moments to loll among the
cushions of her divan skimming the
of the last novel before another
toilet is in order. At ) she is again in
the carriage in sumptuous reception
dress, rolling to an afternoon" Two
are down on her tablets for that day,
and by nice calculation she gets the
cream of both before, shortly after 6,
she stands once more in her own hall
and learns from the servant in attend
ance that gentleman is waiting to be
IN the green parlor.
In all the bravery of brilliant dress,
dropping only the fur-lined carriage
wrap, she crosses the hall. Fifteen,
twenty minutes pass, then the portiere
Of the green parlor is put aside and a
young man comes out. His face is pale
and his lips are compressed, but his
bearing is erect and Soldierly, and there
is CLEAN of something in his kindling
eye which may be a fine scorn when
that mist of tenderness has cleared |
away.
Mademoiselle goes upstairs a trife
Her room is brilliant with |
warmth and light. and on the bed is
spread an evening dress, all lace and |
silken sheen.
There is no hurry, Barker - she says,
briefly; I'VE entertain at home tonight, |
and dinner is not until half-past s. |
Help me off with these things; give me |
a loose gown and fifteen minutes here |
before the fire -