Ah! he was very fond of me then, I recollect, with a sigh.
My hair is streaming down my back, far below my waist; I am looking well, but young very young; indeed, I am painfully conscious that, now my high-heeled shoes are lying under a chair, I might easily be mistaken for a child of fourteen.
The thought is distasteful. Hastily putting up my hands, I wind my hair round and round my head until I have reduced it to its everyday decorous fashion; only to find that rolls and smoothness do not accord well with a negligee costume.
Looking at myself again with a critical eye, I am again dissatisfied. I may appear older, I certainly do not present so pleasing a tout ensemble; so, with much vicious haste, I once more draw out the hair-pins and let my straight brown hair hang according to its fancy. Being now at last convinced I am to be seen at my best, I proceed to act upon the thought that has caused all this unwonted vanity, I go softly to Marmaduke's dressing-room door, armed with my brush and begin to batter at it pretty loudly.
"Marmaduke, Marmaduke!" I cry, but obtain no answer. That he is within is beyond all doubt, as every now and then through the thick oaken door I can hear a sound or two.
Again I exercise my lungs, again I batter at the door.
"'Duke—Marmaduke!" I cry once more, impatiently.
"What do you want?" demands my husband, in a voice that sends my heart into my blue slippers.
"I want to get in," I return, as meekly as one can, when one's tone is raised to the highest pitch.
"You cannot now; I am busy."