The next minute she was ready to laugh at herself
for entertaining so absurd an idea. She glanced down at Lydia's
ungloved hands, which Ellen Dix had just described, and reflected
soberly that Wesley Elliot sat at table with those dainty pink-tipped
fingers three times each day. She had not answered Ellen's foolish
little questions; but now she felt sure that any man, possessed of
his normal faculties, could hardly fail to become aware of Lydia
Orr's delicate beauty.
Fanny compelled herself to gaze with unprejudiced eyes at the fair
transparent skin, with the warm color coming and going beneath
it, at the masses of blond hair drawn softly back from the high
round forehead, at the large blue eyes beneath the long sweep of
darker lashes, at the exquisite curve of the lips and the firmly
modeled chin. Yes; Jim had seen truly; the ordinary adjective
"pretty"--applicable alike to a length of ribbon, a gown, or a girl
of the commoner type--could not be applied to Lydia Orr. She was
beautiful to the discerning eye, and Fanny unwillingly admitted it.
Lydia Orr, unabashed by the girl's frank inspection, returned her
gaze with beaming friendliness.
"Did you know I'd bought a house?" she asked. "It's old and needs a
lot of repairing; so I was just asking Judge Fulsom--"
"Deacon Amos Whittle is, so to say, a contractor," said the Judge
ponderously, "and so, in a way, am I."
"A contractor?" puzzled Lydia. "Yes; but I--"
"If you'll just give over everything into our hands connected with
putting the old place into A-number-one shape, I think you'll find
you can dismiss the whole matter from your mind.
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