“My mercy, Frances! I scarcely know you,” he admitted. “You certainly make a great show.”
“Are you satisfied?” she asked again.
“I–I’d ought to be,” he breathed, solemnly. “You–you’re a beauty! Isn’t she, Pratt?”
“Save my blushes,” Frances begged, but not lightly. “If I suit you exactly, Daddy, I shall appear at dinner this way.”
“Sure! Show them to our guests. There’s not another woman in the Panhandle can make such a show.”
Frances, with a sharp pain at her heart, thought this was probably true.
“Wait, Daddy,” she said. “Let me run back and make one little change. You wait there in the cool reception-room, and see how I look next time.”
She could no longer bear the expression of Pratt’s eyes. Turning, she gathered up her skirts and scuttled back to her room. Her cheeks were afire. Her lips trembled. She had to fight back the tears.
One by one she removed the gaudy ornaments. She left the crescent in her wavy brown hair and the old-fashioned brooch at her breast. Everything else she stripped off and flung into a drawer, and locked it.
These two pieces of jewelry might be heirlooms that any young girl could wear with taste at her “coming out” party.