Close
acquaintance with the cosmopolitan society of Paris and London had
familiarized her with many types of European and American beauty, and
her surprise that such an uncommonly good-looking girl should be the
niece of David Verity was not unmingled with pique at finding her
already installed in remote Las Flores.
The veranda seemed to be a hive of feminine industry. The Dona
Pondillo and her daughters, together with the female relatives of
several noted men among the insurgents, were cutting and stitching most
industriously. Iris Yorke's advice, perhaps her assistance, was
evidently in demand. Assuming that the young man who rode thither so
rapidly had gone to see her, she could not have been absent from the
sewing party more than five minutes, yet half a dozen ladies were
clamoring for her already. The truth was that many of them had never
plied a needle before in their lives. They had to be taught
everything. One peasant woman would have accomplished more real work
than any five of the Librationist _grandes dames_.
Despite her firm chin, Carmela De Sylva did not contemn the
meretricious aid of dress. Iris looked fresh and cool in soft muslin,
whereas the newcomer was travel-stained and disheveled. The pack-mules
were lagging on the road, but a wash and general tidying of
dust-covered garments would help the President's daughter to regain the
assurance, now sadly lacking, which would be necessary ere she won her
rightful place in a community largely composed of strangers.
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