Miss Denis made no reply, but was firmly resolved that nothing short of physical force should part her and her very best dress. Mrs. Creery said no more either, but determined to have a word with the Colonel by-and-by, and also to give him her opinion of the absurd extravagance of his daughter's outfit!
As she sat drawn up beside Helen's trunks whilst she unpacked, her perpetual queries, "What is this? What did you give for that?" were, to say the least of it, trying. However, her victim was but recently emancipated from school, had a wholesome awe of her elders, and a remarkably sweet temper, so the whole inspection passed off quite smoothly, and entirely to Mrs. Creery's satisfaction.
"I saw you talking to Lizzie Caggett last evening," she remarked, as she arranged her topee at the mirror, and dodged her profile in a hand-glass. "What was she saying to you?"
"She was asking me what I thought of the place?"
"Well, don't tell her much—that's my advice to you! She is certain to come here borrowing your patterns, but don't lend her one! I shall be really angry with you if you do." (This came well from a lady who was carrying off the promise of half-a-dozen.) And little did Helen know the large reading a Dirzee gives to the term "taking a pattern." It means that he rips up seams, punches holes in the material with his gigantic scissors, and turns a new garment inside out and upside down, with as little ceremony as if it were an old thing that was going to the rag-bag. At present, ignorance was bliss. Mrs. Creery's convict Dirzee was coming down that very afternoon to carry away Helen's two prettiest and freshest costumes!
"Now," continued the elder lady, "mind with I say about Lizzie Caggett; she has dozens of dresses, and is head over ears in debt in Calcutta, not to speak of the bazaar here—I know myself that she owes Abdul Hamed two hundred rupees,—and do not encourage her in her wicked extravagance."
Then walking to the window, she cried out rapturously, "What a view! Why, I had no idea of this; you can see every bit of the road—and there's the General going up home, and Mr. Latimer with him! I suppose he has asked him to breakfast—that's the second time this week! And here comes Dr. Malone, running; he has something to tell him! Oh, I must go! Where's my umbrella? Don't forget the dresses," and without further adieux, Mrs. Creery was flying down the steps, brandishing her arms, and calling out in a shrill falsetto,—
"Stop, stop, Dr. Malone. I'm coming. Wait for me!"