"You darling," she said.

An unaccountable sense of expectancy--almost of exhilaration was taking possession of her.

She looked into the mirror and stood content with what she saw reflected there.
"How much of a relation is he, Celia ?" balancing the rosy bow with a little cluster of pink hyacinth on the other side.
Celia Craig, forefinger crooked across her lips, considered aloud.
"_His_ mother was bo'n Constance Berkley; _her_ mother was bo'n Betty Ormond; _her_ mother was bo'n Felicity Paige; _her_ mother----" "Oh please! I don't care to know any more!" protested Ailsa, drawing her sister-in-law before the mirror; and, standing behind her, rested her soft, round chin on her shoulder, regarding the two reflected faces.
"That," observed the pretty Southern matron, "is conside'd ve'y bad luck.

When I was a young girl I once peeped into the glass over my ole mammy's shoulder, and she said I'd sho'ly be punished befo' the year was done." "And were you ?" "I don't exactly remember," said Mrs.Craig demurely, "but I think I first met my husband the ve'y next day." They both laughed softly, looking at each other in the mirror.
So, in her gown of rosy muslin, bouffant and billowy, a pink flower in her hair, and Celia's pink-and-white cameo at her whiter throat Ailsa Paige descended the carpeted stairs and came into the mellow dimness of the front parlour, where there was much rosewood, and a French carpet, and glinting prisms on the chandeliers,--and a young man, standing, dark against a bar of sunshine in which golden motes swam.
"How do you do," she said, offering her narrow hand, and: "Mrs.
Craig is dressing to receive you.

.