“You will go, then?”
“Oh yes, Camelia.”
Camelia felt more and more uncomfortable; her object was gained and she could hardly relinquish it, but she wanted to hurry away from the unpleasing contemplation of this badly-tempered instrument. She lingered, however.
“You are right to keep on that straw hat—it is very becoming to you. Here, let me draw your hair forward a little. Now you will make conquests, Mary! The basket is in my dressing-room on the little table. Shall I order the dog-cart for you?”
“Thanks very much, Camelia.”
“Mary, you make me feel—horridly!”
Camelia could not check that impulse. “Do you mind? You see that I can’t get out of it; you see that it wouldn’t do—don’t you? I hope you don’t really mind.”
“Oh no; I was a little disappointed, it was very thoughtless—very ungrateful.” The conventional humility rasped Camelia’s discontent. “And you will tell Mr. Perior?—you will explain?”
“Yes, yes, dear.”
Mary was now so completely divested of riding attire that Camelia left her with the assurance of having effected her purpose most thoroughly. But alas! it had rather lost its savor. As she slowly descended the stairs she realized that the game, though worth the candle, perhaps, had been decidedly spoiled by the candle’s unmanageable smoking and guttering. Mary’s decided sullenness had been quite an unlooked-for feature in the little scheme; it had involved her in a web of petty falsities for which Perior would have scorned her.