Chapter 13

When I found myself once more in the possession of Bobbinet & Co.,
I fancied that I might anticipate a long residence in their drawers, my
freshness, as an article, having been somewhat tarnished by the
appearance at Mrs. Trotter's ball. In this I was mistaken, the next day
bringing about a release, and a restoration to my proper place in
society.

The very morning after I was again in the drawer, a female voice was
heard asking for "worked French pocket-handkerchiefs." As I clearly
came within this category--alas, poor Adrienne!--in half a minute I
found myself, along with fifty fellows or fellowesses, lying on the
counter. The instant I heard the voice, I knew that the speaker was not
"mamma," but "my child," and I now saw that she was fair. Julia
Monson was not as brilliantly handsome as my late owner, but she had
more feeling and refinement in the expression of her countenance. Still
there was an uneasy worldly glancing of the eye, that denoted how
much she lived out of herself, in the less favorable understanding of the
term; an expression of countenance that I have had occasion to remark
in most of those who think a very expensive handkerchief necessary to
their happiness. It is, in fact, the natural indication that the mind dwells
more on show than on substantial things, and a proof that the possessor
of this quality is not content to rely altogether on the higher moral
feelings and attainments for her claims to deference. In a word, it is
some such trait as that which distinguishes the beautiful plumage of the
peacock, from the motive that incites the bird to display his feathers.

In company with Miss Monson was another young lady of about her
own age, and of a very similar appearance as to dress and station. Still,
a first glance discovered an essential difference in character. This
companion, who was addressed as Mary, and whose family name was
Warren, had none of the uneasiness of demeanor that belonged to her
friend, and obviously cared less what others thought of every thing she
said or did. When the handkerchiefs were laid on the counter, Julia
Monson seized on one with avidity, while Mary Warren regarded us all
with a look of cold indifference, if not one of downright displeasure.

"What beauties!" exclaimed the first, the clerk at that moment quitting
them to hand some gloves to another customer--"What delightful
needle-work! Mary, do YOU purchase one to keep me in
countenance, and I will purchase another. I know your mother gave you
the money this very morning."

"Not for that object, Julia. My dear mother little thinks I shall do any
such thing."

"And why not? A rich pocket-handkerchief is a stylish