Some singular change had been at work on the girl. She had lost
her wonted gayety of spirits, and was for the most part subdued, almost
sad. Her beautiful eyes seldom lighted with a smile, and her sweet voice
was rarely heard.
She came, from a day spent out, one evening, into Margie's dressing-room.
Miss Harrison was preparing for the opera. There was a new prima donna,
and Archer was anxious for her to hear the wonder. Margie had never
looked lovelier. Her pink silk dress, with the corsage falling away
from the shoulders, and the sleeves leaving the round arms bare, was
peculiarly becoming, and the pearl necklace and bracelets--Archer's
gift--were no whiter or purer than the throat and wrists they encircled.
Alexandrine stood a moment in the door, looking at the lovely picture
presented by her young hostess. A pang, vague and unacknowledged, wrung
her heart, and showed itself on her countenance. But she came forward
with expressions of admiration.
"You are perfect, Margie--absolutely perfect! Poor gentlemen! how I pity
them to-night! How their wretched hearts will ache!"
Margie laughed.
"Nonsense, Alex, don't be absurd! Go and dress yourself. I am going to
the opera, and you must accompany us."
"_Us_--who may that plural pronoun embody?"
"Myself--and Mr.
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