“Oh, my dear Gwen! And what did you say?”
“What could I say?” I answered, rising. “I said nothing. ‘How does one say nothing?’ To you I say, at last. ‘Good night.’” And, stooping down, I kissed her, and, gathering up my various accoutrements, departed, and crept up to my own room.
But I did not go to bed immediately. I sat brushing my long fair locks, and slowly reviewing all the events of this remarkable evening.
Between intervals of hair-brushing, I studied the Chalgrove brows and upper lip that confronted me in that miserable looking-glass. The eyebrows were slightly arched, finely penciled, and quite black. The Chalgrove lip was short, and a little—well, if not scornful—haughty. And it was a lying lip: for, as far as one is permitted to know one’s self, I was neither.
The clock was striking three when I crept into bed, and fell asleep almost as my head touched the pillow, and enjoyed unusually interesting dreams.
The next morning a brace of pheasants and a huge bouquet of violets were left at the hall door, with Mr. Everard Somers’ compliments for Mrs. Hayes.
We went to tea at the rectory that afternoon. I took my guitar, by request, and played and sang. I was becoming quite a society girl! I wore a smart toque—made by my own hands—and a bunch of violets, and received an unusual share of the conversation. The fame of my début had been noised abroad; one girl asked me where I got my guitar ribbons; another, where I got my toque; a third, where I had obtained the lovely violets, and who was my dressmaker?
“I hear your daughter looked quite nice last night,” said Mrs. Blunt (our rector’s wife), affably.
“Nonsense, mother,” said her well-named daughter. “We were told she was the beauty of the evening, the cynosure of all eyes, and I’m sure I am not surprised.”