“Pale blue and white flowers. There are some white violets in the library. I have a red rose. We shall contrast each other very well.”
“What is it all about? Do we really care how we look in the eyes of this Mr. Mostyn?”
“Of course we care. We should not be women if we did not care. We must make some sort of an impression, and naturally we prefer that it should be a pleasant one.”
“If we consider the mortgage——”
“Nonsense! The mortgage is not in it.”
“Good-by. Tell Mattie to bring me a cup of tea upstairs. I will be dressed in an hour.”
The tea was brought and drank, and Ethel fell asleep while her maid prepared every item for her toilet. Then she spoke to her mistress, and Ethel awakened, as she always did, with a smile; nature’s surest sign of a radically sweet temper. And everything went in accord with the smile; her hair fell naturally into its most becoming waves, her dress into its most graceful folds; the sapphire necklace matched the blue of her happy eyes, the roses of youth were on her cheeks, and white violets on her breast. She felt her own beauty and was glad of it, and with a laughing word of pleasure went down to the parlor.
Madam Rawdon was standing before the fire, but when she heard the door open she turned her face toward it.
“Come here, Ethel Rawdon,” she said, “and let me have a look at you.” And Ethel went to her side, laid her hand lightly on the old lady’s shoulder and kissed her cheek. “You do look middling well,” she continued, “and your dress is about as it should be. I like a girl to dress like a girl—still, the sapphires. Are they necessary?”
“You would not say corals, would you, grandmother? I have those you gave me when I was three years old.”
“Keep your wit, my dear, for this evening. I should not wonder but you might need it. Fred Mostyn is rather better than I expected. It was a great pleasure to see him. It was like a bit of my own youth back again. When you are a very old woman there are few things sweeter, Ethel.”
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