“What subject, Emma,” I repeated, “was my father’s one sensitive point?”
“Oh”—rather confusedly—“it was an old, old story. It is no use in recalling it now. Would you mind running into my room, dear, and fetching me the large scissors?”
It was evident that my usually communicative stepmother wished to change the conversation.
The next evening I placed myself and my toilet entirely in Emma’s hands. She was a clever hairdresser, and lingered long over my adornment; it being, as she confessed to me, “a labor of love.” When the last pin had been fastened, she surveyed me with an air of critical approval, and said—
“Now, Gwen, look at yourself, and tell me your candid opinion of Miss Hayes?”
I rose up and surveyed my appearance in a narrow little mirror in her wardrobe, whilst Emma stood on a chair and held the flat candle triumphantly over my head.
I wore my thick fair hair turned off my face as usual; a long plain white satin gown, a lace fichu knotted in front, and a little gold necklet and locket which had once belonged to my own mother.
“I think, since you ask me,” I said, “that Miss Hayes is absurdly overdressed, most unsuitably got up. This magnificent satin, this cobwebby lace, are ridiculously out of place on me.”
“They don’t look out of place, I can assure you; you become them to the manner born. You might be a countess in your own right, as far as your appearance and style are concerned. I must say, Gwen, that you are a girl that it is a pleasure to dress; you have quite a grand air, such a remarkable carriage.”