Even Jessica looked up disturbed at this unwonted behavior on her “man’s” part, knowing full well how greatly Cousin Margaret would disapprove, but the expression of that great dame’s countenance was worth a study.
After a moment of amused silence, said she:
“Indeed! How remarkable! But, Ephraim, if you please, spare us any more rhapsodies on the Avenue A residents. Jessica was bad enough but--Ephraim, I would like my dinner.”
Instantly, the old man saluted, wheeled with his accustomed military precision and vanished below stairs. But he felt as if he had been dashed with icy water, while Jessica in sympathy found tears spring to her eyes. But, Jessie, alas! did not as yet realize her full privilege in being a Waldron.
“Cousin Margaret, are there many Avenue A’s in this city?” asked Jessica one morning, shortly after that first glimpse of real poverty which her visit to Sophy Nestor had given her.
Madam laid down the Review she was reading--a Review of Paris fashions--and brought her attention to bear upon the girl sitting thoughtfully upon that old, fascinating carpet, whose half-invisible figures she was so fond of studying.
“I hope not! I should say that one was amply sufficient for even so large a city as New York. But, Jessica, do get up and take a chair. You are rumpling your frock and I shall want you to go down town with me very soon. I have already ordered the carriage. You will need many more things and so shall I. Look, child. You have fairly good taste. What do you think of this design for a dinner gown? It strikes me as very graceful, with the long lines and its dignified simplicity. I’ve a mind to order Melanie to make me one just like it.”
Jessica obediently came and stood beside the lady, and tried to fix her gaze upon the colored page of models. But they seemed to dance before her in a maze of ragged garments fluttering from a “pulley” clothes-line, and the simpering faces of the pictured wearers took on the haggard features of the wretched tenement women she could not forget.
“They all look so silly, those paper women, Cousin Margaret.”
“Of course, odd child! The editor could scarcely afford to pay real artists to put on the heads to his fashion-models after the great expense of them, alone. This is the most exclusive of our magazines, devoted to the art of dress, and the styles in this are copyrighted. That’s such a fine thing about them, they can never become common. But--why do you look at me so strangely?”