She considered me thoughtfully, still through the mirror.
“I think you will be foolish not to come. Mrs Skeffington-Smythe will tell all the men that it is because you are so burnt and blistered. They will get quite a wrong impression of you.”
I answered cheerfully: “They can get a fresh one when they see me. But do their impressions matter?”
This, for no earthly reason, annoyed her. She cast me a look of mingled irritation and curiosity which I received calmly. At twenty-one one can bear with a prepared heart the piercing scrutiny of “something over thirty.”
“Oh, yes: you will find that they matter. One has rather a bad time in this country if the men don’t like one.”
I could have told her that men always liked me, but it seemed brutal to inflict unnecessary pain.
“Really?”
“For one thing they have all the horses, and there is very little to do if one doesn’t ride. But, of course, that won’t affect you.”
“Oh, why?” said I, opening my eyes wide. “I’ve brought a habit with me and I adore riding.”
I thought of “Belle’s” white feet and my own tingled to be in the stirrups.