"Well—I dunno's my hand's in nowadays," said Mrs. Heeny in a tone that belied the doubt she cast on her own ability.
"Oh, you're an ARTIST, Mrs. Heeny—and I just couldn't have had that French maid 'round to-night," sighed Mrs. Spragg, sinking into a chair near the dressing-table.
Undine, with a backward toss of her head, scattered her loose locks about her. As they spread and sparkled under Mrs. Heeny's touch, Mrs. Spragg leaned back, drinking in through half-closed lids her daughter's loveliness. Some new quality seemed added to Undine's beauty: it had a milder bloom, a kind of melting grace, which might have been lent to it by the moisture in her mother's eyes.
"So you're to see the old gentleman for the first time at this dinner?" Mrs. Heeny pursued, sweeping the live strands up into a loosely woven crown.
"Yes. I'm frightened to death!" Undine, laughing confidently, took up a hand-glass and scrutinized the small brown mole above the curve of her upper lip.
"I guess she'll know how to talk to him," Mrs. Spragg averred with a kind of quavering triumph.
"She'll know how to LOOK at him, anyhow," said Mrs. Heeny; and Undine smiled at her own image.
"I hope he won't think I'm too awful!"
Mrs. Heeny laughed. "Did you read the description of yourself in the
Radiator this morning? I wish't I'd 'a had time to cut it out. I guess
I'll have to start a separate bag for YOUR clippings soon."
Undine stretched her arms luxuriously above her head and gazed through lowered lids at the foreshortened reflection of her face.