She was a plain-looking girl of eighteen, with homely, irregular
features, a sallow complexion, and a reserved, haughty manner that
tended to repel all friendly advances. All that clothes could do to
improve a girl's appearance had certainly been done for her. Every
part of her costume, from her fashionable gown to her stylish hat,
indicated wealth and good taste; but the face that looked wistfully
back at her from the little dressing-room mirror was not pretty.
The door into the adjoining parlour was slightly ajar, and she could
hear some one pacing restlessly about, awaiting his turn. "I'll be
ready for you in about three minutes, Charley!" called the dentist
from the inner room; and Alida heard the reply, "No hurry. I want to
speak to one of the boys I see coming down the street."
The voice was a familiar one. She recognised it as belonging to
Charley Jarvis, a friend of her sister. The next instant she heard a
window thrown up, and a shrill whistle sounded out on the snowy air.
Peering cautiously out of the window where she stood watching for the
carriage, she saw another acquaintance, Phil Bently, look up and wave
his hand in response to the whistle. A moment later he came bounding
up the stairs, three steps at a time, and into the adjoining parlour.
"What's up, old fellow?" he asked.
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