CHAPTER XXIX
A CONFESSION
Time flew on till it was just two days before Christmas, or, at least, the festival which in Lucifram takes the place of Christmas in our world.
On this particular afternoon Rosalie dressed with the greatest possible care, and looked three consecutive times sideways in the glass, to see if her nose was any better disposed to turn downwards; but it wasn’t. Still, it detracted nothing from the general effect, and, indeed, might be said to help, if only on the side of morality, to keep her from growing conceited.
The frog, having come to that stage when one evidently regards oneself as quite perfect enough, felt no qualms as to its appearance, took not one doubtful glance into the glass.
Rosalie, when she was ready, put her head through the door to tell Miss Crokerly she was going to pay a call; she did not say where.
Miss Crokerly, busy with festival matters, simply nodded her head. It was just a little after three.
Rosalie left the house, and walked on quickly till she came to Greensward Avenue. Coming here, her steps slackened; but she continued walking till she came in sight of Marble House. Here she came to a dead stand, and looked blindly on the pavement. Her heart was beating so quickly that if the passers-by had not been walking along so heavily they must have stopped to inquire about it.
But from a full stop she ran lightly and hurriedly up the steps and rang the bell. There was no escape now, for within thirty seconds it had opened. There stood Everard, just the same as ever, as silent, as polite, no more surprised.
Rosalie took her courage in both hands. There was that hideous umbrella stand that a dowager-duchess had once exclaimed was the most charming novelty she’d ever seen.
“Is Mr. Barringcourt at home?” said she.