His cambric handkerchief
adjusted in his coat with the monogram corner well displayed, a last touch to
the carefully trained lock on his forehead, and he was ready for his
customers.
"Six, did you say, miss? I should have thought five and three quarters--
Attend to that gentleman, Miss Dix, please; I am very busy."
"Six-and-a-half gray sue'de? Here they are, an exquisite shade. Shall I try
them on? The right hand, if you will. Perhaps you'd better remove your elegant
ring; I should n't like to have anything catch in the setting."
"Miss Dix! Six-and-a-half black glace'--upper shelf, third box--for this lady.
She's in a hurry. We shall see you often after this, I hope, madam."
"No; we don't keep silk or lisle gloves. We have no call for them; our
customers prefer kid."
Oh, but he was in his element, was Claude Merrill; though the glamour that
surrounded him in the minds of the Edgewood girls did not emanate wholly from
his finicky little person: something of it was the glamour that belonged to
Boston,--remote, fashionable, gay, rich, almost inaccessible Boston, which
none could see without the expenditure of five or six dollars in railway fare,
with the added extravagance of a night in a hotel, if one would explore it
thoroughly and come home possessed of all its illimitable treasures of wisdom
and experience.
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