“Ah! but your vanity will take you much further than any Mashonaland horse,” said she, and loafed wearily from the room.
Really, that was très drôle! I couldn’t help laughing, first at her cross-patchiness and secondly at the idea of my being vain. For, of course, I am not vain at all, only these antagonistic women aroused my dormant cat, and made me want to say arrogant things. I felt sure that if I did not they would walk all over me, and that is a thing I never allow any one to do. It is bad for them.
The sense of disappointment I had felt the night before returned to me, but it was accompanied by the spirit of fight. If these women wanted battle, well they should have it, and I would fight them with their own weapons. However, it behooved me first to put mine in order. I presently arose and from my dressing-case secured a hand-glass and a pot of common or garden hazeline, which I had found to prove a more useful friend in time of need than all the Oriental creams that were ever buried with Persian princesses and rooted out again by the owners of beauty-parlours in Bond Street and Fifth Avenue. Having retired to my bed once more I fell to studying my appearance with an earnestness I had never before given the subject.
The old tragic look was peeping out of my gay face as usual. I jibed at it as always: but really I believe that without it I should not have been so charming and original looking.
My mother could never watch me long without tears coming into her eyes. She would say:
“Oh, Deirdre, what puts that look into the back of your eyes?”
And I would answer:
“Darling, what look? I was just thinking of a book, or a ride, or a new gown—nothing sad at all.”
“Well, it must mean something, Deirdre!” she would declare. “I fear for you. I believe you are predestined to some terrible suffering or sorrow, and your soul knows about it and is afraid.”
“Nonsense, darling,” I always told her. “I’ll never let anything make me unhappy. No one shall turn me into a tragedy. I know too much about the joy of living.”