glad to see her and his little son. Ah, the comfort of that little son! She leaned over the bed, half dressed as she was, and murmured pretty cooing phrases, kissing and cuddling him to contented laughter.
Betty Towers had procured clothing for her—a modest supply—using her own good taste, and not disguising Cassandra's natural grace and dignity by a too-close adherence to the prevailing mode. There were a blue travelling gown and jacket, and a toque of the same color with a white wing; a soft clinging black silk, made with girlish simplicity which admirably became her, and a wide, flexible brimmed hat with a single heavy plume taken from Betty's own hat of the last winter. Cassandra stood a long moment before the two gowns. She desired to don the silk, but Betty had told her always to wear the blue in the morning, so at last she obeyed her kind adviser.
While waiting with her baby in her arms for the hotel boy to call her cab, she observed another lady, young and graceful, enter a cab, and a maid following her wearing a pretty cap, and carrying a child. Eager, for David's sake, to draw no adverse comment upon herself, she took note of everything. Ought she then to arrive attended by a maid, carrying her baby? But David would know she did not need one; bringing him his little son in her own arms, what would he care for anything more? So the address was given the cabman, and they were rattled away over the rough paving, a long, lonely ride through the wonderful city—so many miles of houses and splendid buildings, of gardens and monuments.
Strangely, the people of Vanity Fair leaped out of the book she