The coals, which have been angrily stirred up, throw a good blaze, and reveal the faces and figures of the fire-worshippers assembled round the screen, especially the face and figure of Isabella Jones, the present reigning potentate. She has hitched herself up on the edge of the fire-guard, holding on there by the mantelpiece, and from this elevated position is dispensing law, wit, snubs, and patronage. She is very tall and thin, stoops a good deal, and is the proprietor of a tip-tilted nose, a pair of quick little brown eyes, and millions of freckles. She is also the proprietor of a quantity of pretty dresses, of unlimited pocket-money, a vast amount of self-esteem, and the largest and reddest hands in the room.
Mrs. Harper’s seminary is only intended for the offspring of wealthy folk. Izzie’s father has made his pile in margarine, and has desired that his daughter may have the best of everything—every accomplishment, every extra, just like a duchess. Izzie has, accordingly, a separate bedroom, and lessons from the most expensive masters; nevertheless, she is far—oh! very far—from being like a duchess. Her education was begun too late; she is naturally dull.
“I say, girls,” she is screaming sociably, “isn’t it grand to think that in ten days more we shall all be at ’ome?
“‘This day fortnight, where shall I be?
Not in this academee,
Eating scrape and drinking tea.
This day fortnight, where shall I be?’”
She chanted in a sing-song voice, more or less through her nose.
“And there is the breaking-up dance,” put in one of her satellites; “I don’t want to go home till that is over.”
“Gracious! I should hope not. What fun it will be,” exclaimed Miss Jones. “I hope there will be lots of men this time. I ’inted as much to Miss Selina. What is the use of going to the expense of supper, and us all getting new dresses, just for the day boarders? That’s what I say.”