"I think they are all a pack of set-up people, and that Frank Buxton is the
worst of all," said Edward.

Maggie's heart sank within her to hear this cold, unkind way of talking
over the friends who had done so much to make their day happy. She had
never before ventured into the world, and did not know how common and
universal is the custom of picking to pieces those with whom we have just
been associating; and so it pained her. She was a little depressed, too,
with the idea that she should never see Mrs. Buxton and the lovely Erminia
again. Because no future visit or intercourse had been spoken about, she
fancied it would never take place; and she felt like the man in the Arabian
Nights, who caught a glimpse of the precious stones and dazzling glories
of the cavern, which was immediately after closed, and shut up into the
semblance of hard, barren rock. She tried to recall the house. Deep blue,
crimson red, warm brown draperies, were so striking after the light
chintzes of her own house; and the effect of a suite of rooms opening out
of each other was something quite new to the little girl; the apartments
seemed to melt away into vague distance, like the dim endings of the arched
aisles in church. But most of all she tried to recall Mrs. Buxton's face;
and Nancy had at last to put away her work, and come to bed, in order to
soothe the poor child, who was crying at the thought that Mrs. Buxton would
soon die, and that she should never see her again. Nancy loved Maggie
dearly, and felt no jealousy of this warm admiration of the unknown lady.
She listened to her story and her fears till the sobs were hushed; and the
moon fell through the casement on the white closed eyelids of one, who
still sighed in her sleep.



CHAPTER III.