Julia sighed, and cautiously
stretched forth an arm, a bare, shapely little arm, with bangles on the
round wrist and rings on the smooth fingers, and picked a book from the
floor. Cautiously settling herself on the pillows she plunged into her
novel, now and then pushing back a loose strand of hair, or bringing her
pretty fingernails close to her eyes for an admiring and critical
scrutiny.
An hour passed--another hour. The clock in the front room struck a
silvery ten. Then Julia slammed her book noisily together, and gave a
sharp push to the recumbent form beside her.
"Ah--no--darling!" moaned Mrs. Page, tortured out of dreams.
"Don't--Julie--"
"Aw, wake up, Mama!" the daughter urged. Whereupon the older woman
rolled on her back, yawned luxuriously, and said, quite composedly:
"Hello, darling! What time is it?"
Emeline had aged in seven years; she looked hopelessly removed from
youth and beauty now, but later in the day, when her hair would be taken
out of its crimping kids, her sallow cheeks touched with rouge, and her
veined neck covered by a high collar, a coral chain, and an
ostrich-feather ruff, some traces of her former good looks might be
visible.
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