"Did its little girlie really look as nice as all that? Oh, Mummy, Mummy!"
"Charming, dear, I only wish that ..."
"It's too proud of its little daughter, that's what it is," said Miss Luscombe, sitting on the arm of her mother's chair. "It's a silly, vain, conceited mother, that it is. It can't see any fault in its pet."
She tried to pat her mother's cheek. Mrs. Luscombe moved aside with justifiable irritation.
"Don't do that, Flora! Yes, dear, of course, I think you're wonderful, and looked sweet to-day; but I do wish ..."
"No, no, it doesn't want anything," said Flora.
"I should be so pleased—if you'd put on just a little less lip-salve and not quite so much of that bluish powder."
Having succeeded in completing her sentence, her mother got up and faded quickly out of the room and shut the door, leaving Flora looking quite surprised and rather upset with being found fault with.
Indeed, she did not quite recover her equanimity until she had looked over the cards in the hall and put on a great deal more powder and lip-salve, after which she told her mother perhaps she was right, and in any case she, Flora, would always do what she asked, and would always follow her dear, dear Mummy's advice.
She was so charming and amiable that Mrs. Luscombe pretended to believe her, and said it was sweet of her to take it all off and go out that evening without any adventitious aids to beauty; and this she said in spite of the obvious fact that Flora had evidently put on considerably more than usual.